Paradise 


A  LOST  PARADISE 


'Good  Lord,  Dick!"  she  gasped.    "What  do  you  want?' 


A  LOST  PARADISE 


BY 

FREDERIC  ARNOLD  KUMMER 


FRONTISPIECE  BY 
WILL   GREFE 


NEW  YORK 
W.  J.  WATT  &  COMPANY 

PUBLISHEBS 


COPYRIGHT,  1914,  BY 
W.  J.  WATT  &  COMPANY 


A  LOST  PARADISE 


2136S05 


A  LOST  PARADISE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

SUCCESS!  It  pulsed  and  vibrated  throughout  the 
entire  theatre,  from  the  footlights  to  the  outermost  limits 
of  the  lobby,  from  the  orchestra  seats  to  the  eerie  heights 
of  the  peanut  gallery,  in  subtle  telepathic  waves. 

Some  suggestion  of  it  penetrated  even  to  the  grim 
fastnesses  of  the  box-office,  where  scepticism  rules  ram- 
pant, and  with  thin-lipped  cynicism  watches  the  waver- 
ing line  at  the  ticket-window,  until,  perchance,  put  to 
flight  by  weeks  of  "capacity"  business. 

A  brilliant  audience  was  crowding  into  the  lobby, 
an  audience  of  evening  clothes  and  automobiles,  good- 
natured,  prosperous,  smiling  with  pleased  expectancy. 
The  play  had  been  well  advertised.  The  theatre  was  a 
popular  one.  They  looked  for  a  success,  since  here 
successes  in  the  past  had  been  the  rule.  Even  the 
name  of  the  play,  "The  Winner,"  glowing  across  the 
front  of  the  theatre  in  electric  brilliancy,  seemed  to 
nullify  any  idea  of  failure.  Success  vibrated  in  the 
air,  elusive,  yet  unmistakable. 

5 


6  A  LOST  PAEADISE. 

To  the  tired-eyed  actors  in  their  dressing-rooms,  how- 
ever, these  vibrations  did  not  extend.  Between  them 
and  the  front  of  the  house  hung  an  asbestos  curtain,  a 
wall  between  the  land  of  the  real  and  the  land  of  the 
make-believe.  These  hard-working  folk,  whose  make- 
believe  is  so  bitterly  real  as  well,  in  its  hardships  and  its 
disappointments,  had  learned,  by  experience,  to  feel 
no  surety,  no  certainty  of  success,  until  it  had  been  defi- 
nitely won.  And  then,  too,  it  is  considered  an  evil 
omen,  in  that  stronghold  of  superstition  back  of  the 
footlights,  for  the  actors  to  feel  great  confidence  in  a  new 
play.  Too  often  has  it  presaged  disaster. 

The  body  of  the  house,  cunningly  "dressed"  as  is 
usual  on  opening  nights,  presented  a  brilliant  and  viv- 
idly interesting  spectacle.  Everybody,  it  might  almost 
be  said,  was  there.  Down  front  sat  the  implacable 
"  death  watch,"  the  habitual  first-nighters,  habitually 
bored.  With  them  might  have  been  seen  the  critics,  in 
the  aisle  seats  of  the  first  few  rows,  some  of  them  trying 
to  evolve  witticisms  at  the  expense  of  the  title  of  the 
play,  and  already  blocking  out  their  criticisms  in  ad- 
vance; others  boredly  reading  their  programmes,  won- 
dering, the  while,  what  the  devil  it  was  all  about,  this 
time.  Seeing  from  one  to  two  hundred  new  plays  a  sea- 
son has  its  disadvantages.  One  is  apt  to  become  ultra- 
sophisticated. 

Toward  the  centre  of  the  house  sat  the  manager's 
friends,  and  his  friends'  friends,  to  the  number  of  two 
or  three  hundred,  all,  like  the  department-store  clerks 
and  sales-ladies  in  the  first  balcony,  ready  to  applaud 
vociferously  anything  that  might  afford  the  least  sem- 


rA  LOST  PAEADISE.  7 

blance  of  an  excuse  for  applause.  A  "paper"  audience 
largely,  ready-handed,  and,  with  the  exception  of  the 
"death  watch"  and  the  critics,  an  indulgent  one. 

Here  and  there  were  to  be  seen  prominent  actors  or 
actresses,  out  of  an  engagement  for  the  moment,  wel- 
coming the  opportunity  to  be,  as  it  were,  on  the  side- 
lines, instead  of  in  the  game ;  rival  managers,  eager  to 
see  the  latest  attempt  of  the  opposition,  secretly  hoping 
for  failure;  magazine  editors,  playwrights  and  "near" 
playwrights,  newspaper  men,  friends  of  the  various 
members  of  the  company,  and  a  sprinkling  of  the 
general  public. 

The  brilliant  evening  gowns  of  the  women,  punc- 
tuated more  or  less  regularly  by  the  sombre  black  and 
white  of  their  escorts,  gave  to  the  assemblage  the  appear- 
ance of  a  huge  and  animated  flower  garden,  in  which 
the  men  played  the  part  of  stakes  to  which  the  various 
plants  were  affixed. 

A  subtle  perfume,  an  electrical  buzz  of  conversation, 
a  thrill  of  delicious,  although  secret,  cruelty,  swept 
through  the  audience.  Not  without  reason  did  La 
Rochefoucauld  say,  "There  is  that  in  the  misfortunes 
of  others  which  is  not  displeasing  to  us."  This  atti- 
tude was  by  no  means  confined  to  the  outsiders.  Even 
the  friends  of  those  most  intimately  concerned  felt  it, 
although  they  were  not  conscious  of  it.  Before  them  £ 
grim  conflict  was  about  to  be  unfolded,  a  conflict  between 
failure  and  success.  Much  was  at  stake — the  price  of 
victory  might  run  far  into  six  figures.  They  would  not 
have  been  human,  had  they  not  felt  an  impersonal 
interest  in  the  outcome  of  the  struggle,  and,  if  the  time 


8  A  LOST  PAEADISE. 

should  come  for  turning  down  the  thumb,  even  the 
self-interest  that  would  prevent  them  from  doing  so 
could  not  destroy  the  secret  joy  of  the  impulse. 

There  are  but  three  people,  perhaps,  in  this  audience 
of  several  hundred,  in  whom  we  are  particularly  in- 
terested. One  is  the  manager,  florid  of  face,  painfully, 
almost  unreally  calm,  nervously  smoking  his  cigar  in 
the  lobby.  The  house  is  nearly  full.  The  orchestra 
has  begun  the  overture.  In  eight  minutes,  or  possibly 
ten,  the  lights  will  flash  for  the  rise  of  the  curtain.  He 
has,  in  all,  some  five  thousand  dollars  at  stake — the 
production  has  been  a  fairly  costly  one,  for  a  play  of 
the  type.  He  is  wondering  whether  he  will  lose  it,  or 
whether  it  will  multiply  itself  a  hundred-fold  in  the 
sunshine  of  success.  In  a  little  while  he  will  go  inside, 
and,  leaning  over  the  brass  rail  behind  the  last  row  of 
seats,  will  watch,  not  the  performance,  but  the  audience. 

Just  at  the  moment,  two  friends  of  his,  who  have 
seen  the  dress  rehearsal,  are  telling  him  how  impossible 
it  would  be  for  the  play  not  to  be  a  tremendous  hit.  He 
listens  to  this  with  ill-concealed  annoyance,  regarding  it 
as  an  unfavorable  sign. 

The  second  person  with  whom  we  are  for  the  moment 
concerned,  is  a  keen-looking,  middle-aged  man,  who 
occupies  a  seat  alone  in  the  tenth  row.  He  has  pointed 
gray  mustaches,  of  a  military  flavor,  •  and  slightly  gray 
hair.  From  his  close-lipped,  rather  cynical  mouth,  one 
would  judge  him  to  a  man  whose  acquaintance  with 
human  nature  was  both  varied  and  intimate.  His 
smile,  however,  although  it  intensifies  the  net-work  of 
wrinkles  about  his  eyes,  gives  the  lie  to  the  cynicism  of 


A  LOST  PAEADISE.  9 

his  mouth.  A  man  with  a  heart,  although  the  road  to 
it  might  not  be  an  easy  one.  He  gazes  about,  nodding 
here  and  there  to  some  of  the  professional  people  in 
the  audience,  from  which  it  might  appear  that  he  is 
of  their  world.  This  to  a  limited  extent  is  true.  Ed- 
mund Taylor  is  the  owner  and  also  largely  the  editor 
of  a  magazine,  the  keen  and  incisive  wit  of  which  but 
serves  to  give  point  to  the  weightier  matter  for  which 
it  is  noted.  A  man  of  the  world,  in  the  best  sense,  Mr. 
Taylor.  We  shall  see  more  of  him,  hereafter.  He  has 
come,  to-night,  because  of  an  exceptional  interest  in  the 
author  of  the  play. 

The  third  person  concerning  us  directly  at  this  time  is 
also  a  friend  of  the  author — a  friend,  that  is,  for  want 
of  a  better  term,  since  she  has  about  made  up  her  mind 
to  marry  him.  She  is  a  handsome  young  woman  of 
twenty-eight,  who  looks  twenty-two  and  thinks  forty. 
The  first  impression  that  reaches  the  casual  observer  is 
one  of  exceptional  beauty.  Through  the  haze  of  it 
presently  appear  two  rather  remarkable  gray-green  eyes, 
notable  both  for  their  unsuspected  flashes  of  sophistica- 
tion, and  for  the  fact  that  they  are  set  perhaps  a  trifle 
too  close  together.  She  is,  however,  very  lovely  and 
charming,  and  that  causes  one  to  forgive  her  some- 
what self-assertive  manner. 

Her  chin  is  firm,  excellently  molded,  and  full  of 
character.  Her  hair  is  deep  brown,  with  reddish  high- 
lights. Her  figure  is  ultra-modern,  of  that  box-like 
variety,  narrow  of  hip,  flat  of  back,  which  robs  women 
of  the  purely  maternal  attribute,  but  lends  them  a  more 


10  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

far-reaching  sex  appeal,  no  doubt  because  it  is  both 
more  bizarre  and  more  elusive. 

Her  rather  too  flagrant  exposure  of  her  shoulders  and 
breast  finds  palliation  in  their  ivory-like  beauty,  and  in 
the  girlishness  of  their  contour.  Youth  can  so  brazenly 
defy  the  conventions,  when  it  affords  its  own  excuse. 
Inez  Gordon  radiates  youth,  being  both  old  enough  and 
wise  enough  to  conceal  her  sophistication  behind  a  mask 
of  girlish  innocence.  This  is  the  more  easy,  no  doubt, 
since  she  is  an  actress. 

She  sits  alone,  with  perhaps  as  deep  an  interest  in 
the  play  as  anyone  in  the  audience,  not  excepting  the 
manager  and  the  author.  This  arises  from  the  fact, 
already  mentioned,  that  she  has  made  up  her  mind  to 
marry  the  latter,  in  case  the  play  proves  a  success.  It 
must  not  be  supposed  for  a  moment  that  the  object  of 
her  intentions  knows  this.  He  supposes  she  is  going  to 
marry  him  in  any  event,  since  they  love  each  other, 
and  have  many  times  agreed,  between  them,  that  love 
is  the  most  perfect  flower  of  human  existence,  or  words 
to  that  effect. 

And  lest  the  foregoing  do  either  of  these  young  per- 
sons an  injustice,  let  it  be  said  that  they  do  love  each 
other,  although  no  shock  of  adversity  has  yet  come,  to 
prove  whether  that  love  is  founded  on  the  rock  of  truth, 
or  on  the  shifting  sands  of  opportunity.  Its  strength 
has  not  as  yet  been  tested. 

She  sits  nervously  fingering  her  programme,  and 
wondering  why  the  rise  of  the  curtain  is  so  long  delayed. 
It  is  but  two  minutes  past  the  half-hour,  yet  these  two 
minutes  have  seemed  like  ages.  She  wonders  how  long 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  11 

it  will  be  before  she  stands  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
footlights,  on  such  a  night  as  this,  starring  in  a  play  of 
her  famous  playwright  husband.  The  play  in  which 
she  is  to  star  has,  in  fact,  already  been  started.  Only 
the  weeks  of  rehearsal  incident  upon  the  present  pro- 
duction have  prevented  its  completion. 

Inez  Gordon  is  a  native  of  New  York,  and  a  product 
of  it,  as  well.  Gordon  is  not  her  name.  Neither  is 
Inez.  She  was  baptized  Sophie  Walsh,  and  her  father 
has  been  for  many  years  a  clerk  of  the  Supreme  Court. 
She  has  drifted  to  the  stage  because  of  her  beauty.  She 
has  stayed  there  because  of  her  ability.  So  far,  ingenue 
parts,  and  leads  in  small  summer  stock  companies,  have 
been  the  limits  of  her  success.  At  present,  she  is  out  of  an 
engagement,  because  the  show  in  which  she  opened  in 
January  ran  but  two  melancholy  weeks.  She  has 
known  the  author  of  the  present  play  for  seven  months, 
and  they  have  both  looked  forward  for  three  to  this 
evening  with  high  hopes.  Hence  her  nervousness,  as 
she  awaits  the  rise  of  the  curtain. 

Behind  that  curtain,  a  seemingly  hopeless  confusion 
prevails.  A  half-dozen  stage-hands  are  rushing  here 
and  there,  under  the  direction  of  the  head  carpenter, 
adjusting  a  hundred  tiny  details  of  scenery.  The  prop- 
erty-man is  taking  a  final  look  about,  consulting  with 
nervous  intensity  a  typewritten  list  he  holds  in  his 
hand,  and  making  sure  for  the  twentieth  time  that 
nothing,  down  to  the  box  of  matches  on  the  smoking 
table,  or  the  broken  paper-knife  on  the  desk,  has  been 
forgotten.  A  "scenic  artist"  is  daubing  brushfuls  of 
paint  on  certain  scars  in  the  scenery,  which  have  re- 


12  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

suited  from  the  wear  and  tear  of  the  previous  three 
nights  "on  the  road."  The  stage-director  is  inspecting 
everything  with  an  anxiety  born  of  responsibility,  for 
upon  his  shoulders  the  burden  of  the  production  rests. 
He  has  just  called  the  electrician's  attention  to  the  fact 
that  one  of  his  "baby  spots,"  the  purpose  of  which  is  to 
focus  itself  with  unvarying  pertinacity  upon  the  face 
of  the  leading  woman,  is  striking  one  of  the  set  pieces, 
thereby  not  only  defeating  its  primary  purpose,  but 
illuminating  a  box  of  artificial  geraniums  in  a  window 
sill  until  they  fairly  leap  across  the  footlights. 

In  a  few  moments,  the  signal  will  be  given  for  the 
rise  of  the  curtain.  The  actors,  garish  in  their  make- 
up, crowd  the  wings,  nervously  repeating  to  themselves 
their  opening  lines.  Upon  the  faces  of  all  of  them 
rests  a  look  of  fear.  This  is  an  opening  night.  The 
dread  spectre  of  a  missed  cue,  a  forgotten  line,  a  mis- 
taken piece  of  "business,"  haunts  them.  They  know 
the  temper  of  the  audience  beyond  that  protecting  cur- 
tain. They  know  that,  for  all  its  friendliness,  it  will 
pounce  upon  them,  and  rend  them  to  bits,  if  they  fail. 
They  know  the  thin  dividing  line,  the  feather  edge, 
between  tragedy  and  laughter.  They  know  how  fright- 
fully easy  it  is  to  overstep  that  line.  They  feel  like 
early  Christian  martyrs,  about  to  enter  the  arena,  and 
even  the  most  seasoned  of  them — perhaps  particularly 
the  most  seasoned  of  them — is  afraid. 

There  are  many  little  tragedies  behind  their  grease- 
paint. Here  is  a  man  who  has  been  without  an  engage- 
ment for  nearly  a  year,  and  who  has  gone  into  debt  for 
hundreds  of  dollars  at  his  club,  in  order  to  live.  To  him 


A  LOST  PABADISE.  13 

the  success  of  this  play  means  even  more  than  it  does 
to  the  manager,  for  the  latter  can  laugh  at  the  loss  of  a 
few  thousands,  but  the  former  may  sit  in  a  hall  bedroom 
and  think  of  suicide.  Here  is  a  woman,  who  has  two 
children  to  support,  and  looks  to  her  thirty-five  dollars 
a  week  to  support  them.  If  the  play  fails,  she  may  be 
obliged  to  borrow  money  from  the  wolf-eyed  man  who 
has  been  for  weeks  so  over-ready  to  lend  it.  But  these 
little  tragedies  are  outside  our  story.  The  public,  out 
in  front,  knows  nothing  of  them.  The  critics  may 
know,  but  they  are  judging  a  play,  not  life.  "  The 
play's  the  thing."  Let  us  leave  the  actors  to  their  fate. 

And  what  of  the  author  all  this  time?  He  is  the 
cause  of  all  this  excitement  and  bustle,  all  this  hoping 
and  fearing.  He  has  sat  in  his  room,  and  written  a 
hundred  and  twenty  pages  of  typewritten  manuscript, 
and  as  a  result  perhaps  ten  thousand  people  have  done 
ten  thousand  things,  all  tending  toward  the  vibrating 
moment  when  the  curtain  shall  rise,  and  the  audience 
sit  back  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  and  begin  to  watch  the 
action  of  the  play. 

Scenery  has  been  painted  for  him.  Properties  have 
been  bought,  borrowed  or  manufactured.  Costumes 
have  been  made.  All  the  resources  of  department  stores, 
antique  shops,  electrical  manufacturers,  rug-dealers, 
furniture-makers,  and  what  not,  have  been  drawn  upon 
to  contribute  toward  his  success.  Nearly  a  thousand 
people  have  so  ordered  their  lives  that  upon  this  par- 
ticular evening  they  sit  in  this  particular  theatre,  to 
witness  the  result  of  his  mental  efforts.  Taxicab 
drivers,  car  conductors,  have  brought  them.  All  the 


14  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

machinery  of  civilized  life,  in  one  way  or  another,  has, 
by  his  cerebration,  been  brought  to  bear,  for  the  moment, 
upon  this  thirty-foot  stage,  in  order  to  win  him  success. 
And  yet  we  seem  to  have  forgotten  him. 

By  searching  diligently  through  the  mass  of  scenery 
and  properties  which  litter  the  rear  of  the  stage,  we 
shall  presently  find  a  distressingly  pale  and  nervous- 
looking  young  man,  sitting  on  a  packing  box  in  a  corner, 
smoking  a  cigarette,  the  while  he  pretends  to  read  the 
contents  of  a  sheaf  of  congratulatory  telegrams  which 
he  holds  in  one  hand. 

He  is  in  evening  dress,  the  cut  of  which  is  a  trifle 
archaic,  owing  to  its  having  been  made  some  five  years 
before.  His  soft  gray  hat  is  pulled  rakishly  over  one 
ear.  His  face,  handsome,  clean-shaven,  somewhat 
boyish,  shows  deep  lines  of  sleeplessness  and  overwork. 
He  has  sat  up  for  the  past  three  nights,  rewriting  cer- 
tain scenes,  which  on  the  road  have  developed  un- 
suspected weaknesses.  His  eyes  have  the  brightness 
due  to  over-stimulation.  He  is  so  nervous  that  he  can 
scarcely  read  the  kindly  wishes  for  success  which  the 
telegrams  have  brought  him.  The  stage  door-keeper, 
remembering  several  excellent  cigars  donated  during  re- 
hearsals, comes  up  and  hands  him  more  telegrams. 

"Hope  it's  a  knock-out,  Mr.  Randall,"  he  says 
pleasantly. 

The  young  man  nods,  smiling  a  rather  ghastly  smile, 
and  slips  the  telegrams  into  his  pocket. 

"  Sure  to  be,"  he  replies,  "if  the  wishes  of  my  friends 
can  make  it  so."  He  lights  another  cigarette,  and, 
rising,  begins  to  pace  restlessly  up  and  down.  He 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  15 

wishes  himself  a  thousand  miles  away,  yet  could  not 
be  induced  to  stir  a  dozen  paces  from  where  he  now 
stands. 

He  is  a  man  of  good  height,  and  would  be  of  good 
build,  as  well,  were  he  a  trifle  heavier.  His  clothes 
hang  a  little  too  loosely  on  his  frame;  evidently  he 
weighs  less  than  he  did  when  they  were  made  for  him. 
His  half-humorous,  half-whimsical  smile  develops  deep 
lines  in  his  face.  It  suggests,  in  a  way,  the  tired  face 
of  a  gambler,  and  not  without  reason.  If  this  play 
fails  Richard  Eandall  will  not  only  be  flat  broke,  but 
he  will  be  nearly  two  thousand  dollars  in  debt,  as  well. 
If  it  succeeds,  he  may  make  a  hundred  thousand — 
perhaps  even  two.  It  is  quite  as  exciting  as  roulette, 
or  any  other  gambling  game,  and  the  stakes  are  larger. 
Men  have  committed  suicide,  at  Monte  Carlo,  for  less. 
And  the  wheel  is  about  to  begin  spinning.  In  two  hours 
and  a  half — indeed,  in  less,  for  the  end  of  the  third 
act  will  tell  the  story — all  will  be  over.  No  wonder 
the  man  is  nervous. 

He  selects  from  the  envelopes  in  his  hand  a  single 
one,  which  contains,  not  a  telegram,  but  a  folded  sheet  of 
paper.  Upon  it  is  written,  "Success — for  you,  Dick, 
and  for  us.  Inez."  He  kisses  the  bit  of  paper,  looking 
about  furtively,  to  see  whether  or  not  any  of  the 
stage-hands  have  observed  him.  They  have  not,  being 
all  far  too  busy. 

Suddenly,  there  is  a  cessation  of  bustle  upon  the  • 
stage.     The  stage-hands  crowd  into  the  wings.     The 
director  gives  a  last  look  about,  and  whispers,  "Ring !" 
An  electric  button  is  pressed.     The  orchestra  ceases  its 


16  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

playing,  with  a  flourish.  The  curtain  rises.  Kandall 
hears  a  clear  voice  saying,  "Here  is  the  morning's  mail, 
Miss."  He  throws  down  his  cigarette,  and  walks  slowly 
toward  the  stage  entrance.  The  conflict  is  on.  "  Vae 
victis." 


CHAPTEK  H. 

EICHAED  RANDALL  walked  slowly  toward  the  stage 
door.  A  beautiful  woman,  her  face  blazing  with  rouge, 
her  eyebrows  and  lashes  encrusted  with  grease  paint, 
met  him  as  he  reached  the  foot  of  the  stairway  leading 
to  the  dressing-rooms. 

"  Oh,  I  do  hope  it  will  be  a  success,  Mr.  Kandall," 
she  said.  "  I  wish  it  for  you  with  all  my  heart,  and  I 
believe  you're  going  to  get  it." 

He  smiled  and  pressed  her  hand  between  both  of  his. 

"You  dear!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  know  I  shall,  if  it 
rests  with  you.  Good  luck,  to-night — and  always." 

She  laughed,  and  arranged  the  flowers  in  her  corsage. 

"  You're  not  going  ?  "  she  inquired,  glancing  toward 
the  stage  door. 

"  Just  to  get  a  little  air.  You  see,  I'm  sort  of 
nervous — I  guess,  and — "  He  paused,  smiling. 

"  So  am  I,"  she  remarked,  with  a  little  moue  of  dis- 
satisfaction. "I  always  am  opening  nights,  but  I'll  get 
over  it  as  soon  as  I've  spoken  my  first  lines."  She 
paused  for  a  moment,  listening.  "For  heaven's  sake, 
don't  let  me  miss  that  cue." 

"  Run  along  then.  I'd  never  hear  it,  in  my  present 
state."  He  patted  her  shoulder  affectionately.  "  You're 
superb,  Miss  Ellis.  If  the  thing's  a  go,  I'll  owe  a  lot 

17 


18  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

to  you."  He  flashed  her  a  smile  that  matched  in  its 
genuineness  the  note  of  feeling  in  his  voice.  "  I  don't 
know  where  we'd  have  been,  if  anyone  else  had  played 
the  lead." 

She  started  suddenly. 

"That's  me!"  she  cried,  and  ran  toward  the  wings. 
"Good-by."  With  her  very  next  breath  she  was 
speaking  the  opening  lines  of  her  part,  as  she  made 
her  entrance. 

Randall  paused  for  a  moment,  smiling,  as  he 
listened  to  her  clear,  steady  voice,  then  passed  out  into 
the  alley  beside  the  theatre. 

In  the  street,  he  debated  whether  to  go  around  to 
the  front  of  the  house,  and  see  the  first  act,  or  to 
walk  on  toward  Broadway.  He  decided  upon  the  lat- 
ter. He  knew  the  play  by  heart,  and  felt  too  nervously 
excited  to  be  able  to  endure  hearing  it  again.  He 
strolled  on  toward  the  maze  of  electric  signs  that 
marked  Broadway. 

A  dozen  reasons  told  him  that  the  play  would  be 
a  success.  It  had  been  most  favorably  reviewed  upon 
the  road.  It  was  written  with  sincerity,  with  a  real 
striving  toward  the  truth.  It  had  been  given  an  excel- 
lent production,  and  in  the  main  a  competent  cast. 
It  was  not  his  first  play.  A  bitter  failure  the  pre- 
ceding season  had,  he  believed,  taught  him  much.  The 
critics  had  been  savage,  on  that  occasion,  but  beneath 
their  cheap  witticisms,  their  cynical  derision,  he  had 
found  much  that  was  true,  much  that  was  helpful. 
He  believed  that  he  had  profited  by  it.  The  only 
fear  in  his  heart  arose  from  a  knowledge  that  sincerity 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  19 

and  truth,  in  a  play,  are  by  no  means  always  in  its 
favor.  Sometimes  people  resented  these  things.  They 
came  to  the  theatre  to  be  entertained,  not  shown  their 
littleness,  their  shortcomings. 

Yet  such  plays  had  succeeded.  He  revolved  end- 
lessly about  this  theme,  as  he  made  his  way  into  the 
cafe  of  a  near-by  hotel. 

He  felt  strangely  tired — almost  apathetic.  He  was 
experiencing  the  reaction  from  the  bitter  strain  of  the 
five  preceding  weeks.  He  had  worked  very  hard — had 
built  such  great  hopes  upon  the  success  of  this  play. 
It  meant  more  to  him,  indeed,  than  just  the  money 
it  might  bring  him.  All  these  letters  and  telegrams 
in  his  pocket  spoke  of  a  faith,  on  the  part  of  his 
friends,  which  it  was  necessary,  now,  for  him  to  justify. 
They  had  stuck  by  him,  loyally,  through  one  failure. 
He  could  not  ask  them  to  do  so  through  a  second. 

Then,  there  was  Edmund  Taylor,  the  editor,  who 
had  proven  such  a  splendid  friend.  During  the  past 
eighteen  months,  he  had  lent  Randall  nearly  two  thou- 
sand dollars,  just  because  he  believed  in  him  and  his 
ability.  What  would  Taylor  say,  what  would  he 
think,  if  another  failure  were  to  be  scored  against  him  ? 

And,  above  all,  there  was  Inez  Gordon.  Randall 
felt  in  his  waistcoat  pocket,  and  drew  out  a  ring,  a 
heavy  band  of  gold,  curiously  enameled,  and  contain- 
ing a  sapphire.  It  was  not  a  costly  ring — he  was  in 
no  position  to  spend  money  for  jewelry — but  he  had 
taken  a  small  sum  from  the  advance  royalty  of  five 
hundred  dollars,  which  Harrison,  the  manager,  had 
paid  him  upon  closing  the  contract  for  the  play,  and 


20  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

had  bought  this  ring,  a  curious  antique,  for  a  specific 
purpose.  He  meant,  if  the  play  was  a  success  to- 
night, to  ask  Inez  Gordon  to  marry  him,  and  this  ring 
he  intended  should  be  her  engagement  ring. 

He  slipped  the  ring  quickly  back  into  his  pocket 
as  a  man  came  up  to  him. 

"Hello,  Kandall!"  he  said.     "How's  the  boy?" 

"Pretty  well.  Have  a  drink?"  He  nodded  to  the 
bar-tender.  "What'll  it  be?" 

"Little  whiskey  for  me.  Why  aren't  you  at  your 
show  ?  You  open  to-night,  don't  you  ?" 

"Yes,  I — I  just  ran  out — for  a  moment." 

"How's  she  going?" 

"Too  early  to  say  yet." 

"Well,  I  wish  you  luck."  He  tossed  off  his  drink. 
"Got  great  notices  out  of  town,  I  hear.  Say,  if  you've 
got  any  other  plays,  bring  'em  around.  I'd  be  glad 
to  read  'em.  So  long.  Got  a  party  waiting  for  me 
over  at  the  Astor,  so  I  can't  stop."  He  hurried  off. 

Randall  walked  back  toward  the  theatre,  an  amused 
smile  about  the  corners  of  his  eyes.  This  man,  Sle- 
singer,  was  a  manager  whom  he  had  been  vainly  trying, 
for  some  months  past,  to  get  to  read  one  of  his  plays. 
The  manuscript  had  remained  in  his  office  unread,  for 
many  weeks.  It  was  there  now.  How  greatly  even 
the  possibility  of  success  changed  the  aspect  of  things. 
If  to-night  proved  his  worth  as  a  playwright,  he  knew 
that  to-morrow  would  find  his  wares  at  a  premium. 
Managers  would  even  compete  with  one  another,  to 
secure  the  output  of  his  pen.  Anything  he  wrote  would 
find  at  least  an  immediate  reading,  with  excellent 


A  LOST  PAEADISE.  21 

chances  of  acceptance  upon  the  strength  of  his  suc- 
cess. It  was,  indeed,  a  large  stake,  for  which  he  was 
playing. 

He  reached  the  theatre  just  as  the  curtain  was  rising 
on  the  second  act.  He  passed  the  ticket-taker  with  a 
nod,  and  entered  the  darkened  auditorium.  As  he 
stood  behind  the  rail,  listening  to  the  familiar  words 
of  the  dialogue,  someone  touched  him  on  the  arm.  It 
was  Harrison,  his  manager. 

"Where've  you  been  ?"  the  latter  whispered. 

"Back." 

"First  act  went  great." 

"Did  it?    That's  good." 

"Six  curtains.     That  Ellis  girl's  a  wonder." 

"Glad  you  think  so.  I  always  did."  There  was 
a  winged  dart  in  this  latter  remark.  Harrison  had 
objected  to  Randall's  choice  for  the  lead  strenuously, 
and  had  only  given  in  after  many  predictions  of  dire 
failure. 

"I  know  you  did.  I'll  hand  it  to  you."  The  man- 
ager was  a  big-enough  man  to  admit  his  mistakes  when 
he  made  any. 

They  stood  in  silence,  watching  the  remainder  of 
the  act.  It  moved  smoothly,  rapidly,  vitally.  The 
audience  was  undeniably  interested.  There  was  none 
of  that  rustling  restlessness  which  so  quickly  becomes 
evident  whenever  a  scene  fails  to  hold.  Both  Har- 
rison and  Randall  dreaded  that  shifting  of  feet,  that 
moving  of  programmes,  that  low  clearing  of  throats, 
more  than  they  would  have  dreaded  open  and  condemna- 
tory hissing.  The  latter  might  mean  a  sensation, 


22  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

which,  though  unpleasant,  the  town  would  crowd  to  see. 
The  former  could  only  mean  the  dulness  that  spells 
failure. 

The  act  terminated.  Randall  and  his  companion 
counted  the  calls.  By  clever  manipulation  of  the  cur- 
tain they  totaled  twelve.  And  only  the  second  act! 
It  certainly  looked  like  a  success. 

"Let's  get  a  drink,"  said  Harrison,  as  they  hurried 
out  to  avoid  the  rising  crowd. 

Randall  assented  at  once.  He  had  no  desire  to  talk 
things  over,  at  this  stage  of  the  game,  with  the  many 
acquaintances  who  would  shortly  throng  into  the  loLby. 
He  preferred  to  wait,  and  meet  them  when  success  was 
assured  beyond  all  peradventure. 

"I'm  going  back,  for  this  act,"  Randall  said,  when 
they  had  returned  from  the  cafe  at  the  corner. 

"All  right.  And  be  in  the  first  lower  entrance,  for 
the  curtain.  If  this  is  a  real  success,  and  not  a  false 
alarm,  you  may  have  to  go  on.  I'll  be  there." 

Randall  shivered.  He  dreaded  the  ordeal,  much  as 
he  hoped  for  it.  He  had  no  desire  to  appear  and  make 
a  perfunctory  bow,  yet  he  knew  that  failure  to  call 
for  him  would  be  a  distressingly  bad  sign. 

He  never  knew,  afterward,  how  he  got  through  the 
forty  minutes  of  that  act.  It  seemed  longer  than  all 
his  previous  life.  He  sat  in  a  far  corner  of  the 
stage,  unnoticed,  and  consumed  cigarette  after  cigar- 
ette, scarcely  knowing  what  he  was  doing.  Every  few 
moments  he  glanced  at  his  watch,  for  he  knew  that  the 
curtain  would  be  down  at  about  ten,  twenty-five;  yet, 
had  he  been  asked  the  time  a  moment  after  he  had 


'A.  LOST  PARADISE.  23 

replaced  the  watch  in  his  pocket,  he  could  not  have 
told  it. 

One  of  the  minor  actors,  Miss  Vincent,  a  young 
girl  of  about  twenty,  espied  him,  and,  coming  over, 
sat  beside  him. 

"It's  going  great,"  she  said.  "Oh,  Mr.  Randall, 
I  wish  you'd  write  me  a  play.  Or  a  vaudeville  sketch. 
I've  got  an  idea  about  a  girl  that's  brought  up  in  the 
country,  and  gets  kidnaped  by  a  burglar,  and  he  finds 
out  later  on  that  it's  his  own  daughter,  that  he  hasn't 
seen  for  ten  years.  And  then  the  girl's  mother — her 
step-mother,  I  mean — " 

Randall  never  heard  the  end  of  this  remarkable 
plot.  As  the  girl  rambled  on,  suggesting  that  he  come 
to  her  apartment  some  afternoon  to  talk  it  over,  he 
became  conscious  of  the  clear,  virile  voice  of  Jane 
Ellis,  speaking  the  lines  which  formed  the  concluding 
speech  of  the  act.  He  threw  down  his  cigarette,  and 
ground  it  under  his  heel,  thrust  his  soft  hat  into  the 
pocket  of  the  overcoat,  and  went  toward  the  first 
entrance. 

The  stage-director  was  there,  and  with  him  Mr. 
Harrison.  Several  of  the  members  of  the  company, 
who  did  not  appear  in  the  concluding  scene  of  the  act, 
clustered  about.  Randall  made  his  way  through  the 
little  crowd,  and  stood  beside  Mr.  Paulson,  the 
director.  The  curtain  had  just  fallen. 

A  ghastly  stillness  came  over  the  people  on  the 
stage.  They  moved  neither  hand  nor  foot,  but  listened 
for  that  first  tumultuous  burst  of  applause,  the  spoa- 


24  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

taneity  of  which  their  trained  ears  could  gauge  with 
almost  unvarying  correctness. 

In  an  instant  it  came,  beating  against  the  wall  of 
the  curtain  with  a  dull  roar,  like  that  made  by  breakers 
upon  a  beach. 

Harrison  smiled,  and  raised  his  hand.  The  curtain 
went  up. 

"King!"  he  called,  instantly,  and  it  fell  again.  Mr. 
Paulson,  the  director,  was  calling  out  the  prearranged 
orders  for  the  appearance  of  the  various  members  of 
the  company. 

First  came  the  second  picture,  with  Miss  Ellis  and 
the  leading  man  in  a  close  embrace,  then  Miss  Ellis 
alone,  then  with  her  companion  in  the  scene,  then  the 
latter  appeared  alone,  then  the  two  of  them,  accom- 
panied by  the  others  who  had  figured  in  the  act,  in 
carefully  arranged  groups.  The  applause  did  not 
diminish  in  volume.  Harrison's  smile  became  more 
and  more  broad.  He  knew,  of  course,  that  much  of 
the  clapping  came  from  his  own  cohorts,  but  there 
seemed  to  him  a  genuine  ring  about  it  that  indicated 
success. 

After  the  eighteenth  curtain,  Paulson  turned  to 
Eandall. 

"They're  calling  for  the  author,"  he  said.  "You'd 
better  show." 

Harrison  raised  his  hand. 

"Don't  say  anything,"  he  warned.  "Just  make  a 
bow  and  beat  it." 

The  warning  was  quite  unnecessary.  Randall  could 
not  have  spoken  a  dozen  words  if  his  life  had  depended 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  25 

upon  it.  His  brain  seemed  utterly  at  a  standstill,  his 
feet  made  of  lead. 

In  some  manner  never  to  be  explained,  he  presently 
found  himself  walking  out  against  a  blinding  glare 
of  light,  beyond  which  rocked  a  sea  of  faces,  a  whirl 
of  white  shirt  fronts  and  women's  gowns.  He  saw  no 
one  individually.  He  felt  none  of  the  pride  of  achieve- 
ment of  which  he  had  so  often  dreamed.  All  he  wanted 
to  do  was  to  get  off  the  stage  as  gracefully  and  as 
quickly  as  he  could.  He  made  a  jerky  nervous  little 
bow,  directed  toward  the  house  in  general,  said,  "I 
thank  you,"  with  his  lips,  although  no  sound  came  forth, 
then  managed  to  back  with  more  or  less  awkwardness, 
into  the  friendly  shelter  of  the  wings.  He  gasped, 
drew  out  a  cigarette,  and  asked  the  head  carpenter 
for  a  match. 

"Strike!"  called  Paulson  to  the  stage-hands. 

Harrison  took  Randall  by  the  arm. 

"Let's  get  some  air,"  he  said.  "It's  hot  as  the  devil 
in  here." 

They  went  out  into  the  narrow  alleyway  which  sur- 
rounded the  theatre,  and  started  toward  the  street. 

"Well — what  do  you  think  ?"  Harrison  demanded. 

Randall  looked  up  suddenly.  He  had  supposed  the 
fight  over — the  victory  won. 

"Isn't  it  a  success  ?"  he  asked. 

Harrison  rolled  his  cigar  around  in  his  mouth, 
several  times,  before  replying. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  presently;  "I  think  it  is.  Looks 
like  it,  anyway." 

With  a  huge  sigh  of  relief,  Randall  lit  his  cigarette. 


26  A  LOST  PAEADISE. 

They  were  on  the  sidewalk  now.  A  group  of  men  was 
headed  toward  Broadway.  They  seized  upon  the  two  at 
once. 

"Author — author !"  mimicked  one  of  them,  in  falsetto 
tones.  "Congratulations,  old  chap.  Hope  you  make 
a  barrel  of  money  out  of  it."  It  was  Harrison's  press- 
man, and  his  smile  indicated  the  satisfaction  he  felt. 
He  introduced  his  companion.  "Mr.  Edgerton,"  he 
said,  "America's  foremost  comedian.  No  play  is  com- 
plete without  him.  Say,  Ed,  you  and  Mr.  Randall 
here  ought  to  get  together.  He  might  be  able  to  fix  you 
up  for  next  season." 

"Under  my  management,"  remarked  Harrison,  dryly. 

"I  was  just  talking  with  Willard,"  the  press-man  went 
on,  mentioning  the  name  of  a  well-known  critic. 
"Couldn't  get  him  to  say  much." 

"Did  he  knock  ?"  asked  Harrison  fearfully. 

"No.    Said  he  enjoyed  the  performance  very  much." 

"H-m.  Afraid  to  commit  himself,  I  suppose,  until 
he  finds  out  what  Glauber  and  the  other  fellows  on  the 
morning  papers  have  to  say.  He's  with  the  other  side, 
anyway.  Well — here  we  are."  He  entered  the  swing- 
ing door  of  the  cafe.  "I  guess  they  can't  any  of  them 
knock  very  hard.  Too  good  a  show." 

"Eight  you  are,"  remarked  Edgerton,  heartily.  "Do 
you  know,  though,  Mr.  Randall,  I  think  you  make  a 
little  mistake  in  playing  up  this  socialistic  stuff  so 
strong?  People  go  to  the  theatre  to  be  amused.  Make 
'em  laugh.  Don't  try  to  teach  'em  how  to  treat  their 
fellow-men.  They  don't  want  it — not  in  the  theatre, 
at  least.  May  go  in  a  church." 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  27 

"They  seemed  to  like  it  to-night,"  said  Eandall,  a 
trifle  stiffly. 

"I  know — I  know.  But  remember  what  I  tell  you, 
my  boy.  I'm  old  enough  to  be  your  father,  and  believe 
me — don't  get  the  idea  in  your  head  that  the  stage 
is  an  instrument  for  good,  a  moral  uplift,  or  anything 
like  that.  They'll  stand  that  for  that  sort  of  thing  in 
Chicago,  occasionally,  but  not  here  on  old  Broadway. 
Don't  try  to  make  'em  think,  make  'em  laugh — shock 
'em — appeal  to  tneir  primitive  instincts  and  emotions, 
but  nix  on  the  Ibsen  stuff.  You  may  get  a  niche  in 
the  hall  of  fame,  when  you're  dead,  but  I  imagine  it's 
royalties  you're  after.  Laughs,  lingerie  or  crime. 
That's  what  they  want,  nowadays.  What  are  you  boys 
going  to  have?  Buttermilk  for  mine." 

Mr.  Edgerton's  remarks  filled  Eandall  with  a  sud- 
den disquietude,  but  he  soon  shook  it  off.  !Nobody 
could  deny  the  evidence  of  those  nineteen  curtain  calls, 
or  of  that  tumultuous  and  long-continued  applause. 
He  thought  of  Inez  Gordon,  and  caressed  the  ring  in 
his  waistcoat  pocket,  a  warm  glow  of  happiness  in  his 
heart. 

The  drink  served  to  dispel  some  of  the  weariness 
that  oppressed  him.  He  began  to  feel  a  sense  of  im- 
portance, a  foretaste  of  the  intoxication  of  success.  A 
manager  affiliated  with  Harrison  joined  the  group. 
Eegarded  throughout  the  theatrical  world  as  a  man 
almost  glacial  in  manner,  his  greeting  of  Eandall  was 
comparatively  warm. 

"You  got  a  good  show  there,"  he  said.  "Little  too 
talky,  at  times — not  quite  enough  action,  but  a  good 


28  rA  LOST  PAEADISE. 

show.  Ought  to  make  some  money.  .  .  .  Yes.  I'll 
have  a  glass  of  seltzer." 

They  walked  back  to  the  theatre  to  see  the  last  act. 
Eandall  went  around  to  the  stage  entrance — he  wished 
to  see  Miss  Ellis,  and  the  other  members  of  the  com- 
pany, and  congratulate  them,  after  the  performance. 

The  last  act  was  short.  At  a  few  minutes  before 
eleven,  he  found  himself  in  the  leading  woman's  dress- 
ing-room. 

She  had  already  taken  off  her  gown,  and  sat  in  a 
kimono  before  the  mirror  of  her  dressing-table,  chatting 
with  some  women  friends  who  had  come  back,  after 
the  performance,  to  offer  their  felicitations.  She 
turned  to  Eandall  with  a  radiant  smile. 

"I  hope  you  were  satisfied,  Mr.  Eandall,"  she  said. 
".Wasn't  it  splendid  ?"  The  role  had  offered  her  great 
advantages,  and  she  had  made  the  most  of  them. 

"You  were  splendid,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand.  "I 
want  to  thank  you  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart.  I 
don't  know  what  would  have  happened,  without  you." 

"How  does  it  feel,  to  be  a  successful  playwright  ?" 
she  asked,  joyously,  after  presenting  him  to  her  friends. 

"Well,"  he  said,  deprecatingly,  "I  don't  exactly 
know.  The  only  way  I  feel,  right  now,  is  frightfully 
tired." 

She  threw  a  searching  look  into  his  face. 

"You  ought  to  be  in  bed,"  she  remarked,  laughing, 

"I  know  it,"  he  said.  "And  so  I'll  say  good-night. 
See  you  to-morrow."  He  bowed  and  was  about  to  go. 

She  took  a  gardenia  from  a  bunch  she  had  worn, 
and  handed  it  to  him. 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  29 

"This  for  luck,"  she  said. 

He  put  it  in  the  lapel  of  his  coat. 

"Thanks,  and — good-night." 

He  was  in  a  hurry  to  meet  Inez,  but  still  he  had 
to  say  a  word  to  the  leading  man,  and  to  one  or  two 
of  the  other  members  of  the  company.  It  was  after 
eleven  when  he  left  the  stage-entrance,  and  started  down 
the  alleyway  toward  the  street. 

Inez  was  to  meet  him  here — just  inside  the  iron 
gate.  She,  impatient  at  his  delay,  had  come  part  way 
down  toward  the  stage-door,  and,  almost  before  he 
knew  it,  she  appeared  out  of  the  darkness,  and  ran 
up  to  him. 

"Oh,  Dick!"  she  cried,  throwing  her  arms  about  his 
neck.  "Isn't  it  glorious !  The  play  is  over — and  over 
big.  You  ought  to  have  heard  what  the  people  around 
me  said.  I'm  so  glad !" 

It  was  a  moment  or  two  before  he  recovered  from  the 
shock  of  her  unexpected  appearance.  Then  he  swept 
her  into  his  arms  with  a  sudden  laugh,  and  kissed  her 
over  and  over,  holding  her  slim  body  close  to  his.  The 
relief,  the  joyous  relief  of  feeling,  after  all  these  nerve- 
racking  weeks  of  thought,  rushed  over  him  in  a  flood  of 
warmth  and  happiness. 

"Dear  little  girl,"  he  said,  "I'm  the  happiest  man 
in  New  York." 

"You  ought  to  be — "  she  looked  up  at  him  proudly — 
"after  your  success  to-night." 

"It  isn't  only  that.  It's — it's — you!  Now  we  can 
be  married." 


30  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

"Married?"  She  pretended,  playfully,  that  his 
words  came  as  a  surprise. 

"Yes."  He  drew  the  ring  from  his  pocket,  and, 
taking  her  hand,  slipped  it  upon  her  finger.  "Nothing 
shall  ever  separate  us  again.  From  now  on  we  belong 
to  each  other."  Again  he  encircled  her  with  his  arms. 
"You  dear!" 

"Oh,  Dick!     Do  you  want  me — really?" 

"I  love  you.  I  love  you,  and  I  want  you  more  than 
anything  in  the  world." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  joy  and  happiness  in 
her  eyes.  "I  love  you,  dear,"  she  said,  "and,  from 
now  on,  we'll  never  leave  each  other  any  more." 

The  opening  of  the  stage  door  warned  them  that 
some  of  the  members  of  the  company  were  about  to 
come  out  into  the  alleyway.  They  drew  away  from 
each  other. 

"Let's  go  to  Jack's,  and  get  something  to  eat,"  he 
said.  "I'm  awfully  hungry." 

"Let's.  And  I'll  tell  you  all  about  the  nice  things 
the  people  around  me  said."  They  moved  toward  the 
sidewalk. 

"It's  the  greatest  thing  in  the  world,"  remarked 
Randall,  to  himself,  as  they  turned  toward  Sixth  Ave- 
nue. 

"What?"  she  asked. 

"Success,"  he  replied,  and,  putting  his  arm  through 
hers,  drew  her  close  to  him.  "It  makes  everything 
else  possible." 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  restaurant  was  only  partially  filled  when 
Randall  and  his  companion  entered.  The  night  crowd 
had  not  yet  begun  to  arrive.  They  chose  the  down- 
town side,  as  it  was  more  quiet,  and  they  had  been  in 
the  habit  of  sitting  here  at  a  certain  table  in  the  rear 
corner.  It  was  luckily  unoccupied.  As  they  took  their 
seats,  the  waiter  came  up  with  a  smile. 

"Wiirzburger  ?"  he  asked,  inquiringly. 

Over  and  over  they  had  come  here,  after  rehearsals, 
to  discuss  the  play,  and  its  progress.  Randall  had  been 
in  the  habit  of  drinking  the  imported  beer;  he  fancied 
it  quieted  his  nerves,  and  made  him  sleep. 

He  shook  his  head,  and  smiled  up  at  the  waiter, 
boyishly. 

"We're  going  to  have  some  champagne,  to-night." 
Success — such  success  as  he  felt  he  had  won,  deserved 
to  be  celebrated  in  something  more  fitting  than  beer. 
He  gave  the  waiter  the  name  of  the  brand.  "A  quart, 
please,  and  let  me  have  the  bill  of  fare." 

Inez  smiled  joyfully  at  him,  across  the  table. 

"I  know  what  you  want,"  she  said ;  "and  so  do  I." 

"What  ?"    He  laughed  back  at  her. 

"Soft  clams  a  la  Newburg."  It  was  a  favorite  dish 
of  his.  "And  a  caviar  sandwich  first,  for  an  appe- 
tizer." 

31 


32  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

He  gave  the  order,  and,  leaning  across  the  table, 
stroked  her  hand. 

"Isn't  it  splendid,  dear,  to  know  that  from  now  on 
money  doesn't  make  the  least  difference  with  us  ?  We 
can  have  everything  we  want." 

"How  much  do  you  expect  to  get  out  of  this  play, 
Dick?"  she  asked,  delighted  at  the  change  in  him. 
Eandall  had  been  gloomy,  preoccupied,  of  late. 

"Oh,  six  or  seven  hundred  a  week  at  least — from 
this  company  alone.  You  see  my  royalties  are  five, 
seven  and  a  half,  and  ten.  Five  per  cent,  on  weekly 
gross  receipts  up  to  five  thousand,  seven  and  a  half  on 
the  next  two  thousand,  and  ten  per  cent,  on  all  over 
that.  If  then  they  do  nine  thousand  dollars  a  week, 
which  would  be  only  fair,  for  that  house,  I'll  get — 
let  me  see."  He  began  to  make  figures  on  the  margin 
of  the  menu  card.  "That  would  be  six  hundred  a  week. 
They  will  probably  do  better.  Then,  if  they  put  out 
say  two  road  companies,  I'd  get  not  less  than  five 
hundred  a  week  from  each.  Say  fifteen  hundred  a 
week  from  the  three.  That  would  be  quite  an  income, 
wouldn't  it?  I  should  feel  as  though  I  had  suddenly 
become  possessed  of  Aladdin's  wonderful  lamp." 

She  looked  lovingly  at  the  ring  he  had  placed  on 
her  finger,  turning  it  this  way  and  that,  as  the  light 
of  the  little  table  lamp  flashed  blue  fire  from  the 
sapphire. 

"I  do  love  you,  Dick,"  she  said.    "And,  next  season, 
I'll  open  in  my  own  play." 
He  frowned  slightly. 
"Why  bother  about  that  ?    Wouldn't  it  be  a  lot  more 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  33 

fun,  to  take  a  trip  to  the  Mediterranean — Cairo  and 
all  that  ?  You  know,  I'm  pretty  well  tired  out,  and 
I've  always  wanted  to  go  to  the  East.  We  could  have 
a  lovely  time,  and  it  would  do  us  both  lots  of  good  to 
get  away  from  the  cobblestones,  for  a  while." 

She  considered  this  for  some  little  time,  busying  her- 
self with  the  bits  of  bread  and  butter  she  was  eating. 

"It  would  be  splendid,  Dick,"  she  said  at  length. 
"But,  you  know,  I  have  ambitions,  too.  I'd  never  be 
happy,  just  to  do  nothing.  You  see,  I  made  up  my 
mind,  five  years  ago,  that  some  day  I'd  see  my  name 
in  electric  lights,  on  Broadway.  I  suppose  it's  a  foolish 
ambition,  but  I  can't  give  it  up.  You'll  help  me,  won't 
you,  dear  ?" 

"I'm  not  sure  I'd  want  my  wife — "  he  lingered  over 
the  word  lovingly —  "to  spend  her  time  acting,  when 
she  ought  to  be  with  me.  Why  don't  you  give  up 
the  idea  ?  There's  no  real  happiness  in  it,  and,  in  the 
end,  something  always  happens.  You'd  probably  fall 
in  love  with  your  leading  man,  and  forget  all  about 
me."  He  spoke  playfully,  but  there  was  an  under- 
current of  earnestness  to  what  he  said,  that  was  not 
lost  upon  the  girl. 

"Now,  Dick!"  She  took  his  hand,  and,  pulling  it 
down  upon  the  table,  began  to  caress  it.  "You're  not 
going  to  be  as  old  fashioned  and  silly  as  all  that,  are 
you?  You  know  I'd  never  fall  in  love  with  anybody 
else,  as  long  as  I  have  you.  It  doesn't  show  much 
confidence  in  my — my  feeling  for  you,  I  must  say." 

Her  tone,  carrying  with  it  a  suggestion  of  reproof, 
reduced  him  to  instant  submission. 


34  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

"Of  course,  I  don't  doubt  your  love,  dear,"  he  said. 
"How  could  I,  after  the  way  you've  stuck  by  me, 
through  all  these  months  ?  Now  that  I've  got  success, 
I'll  not  forget  those  who  were  really  my  friends."  A 
momentary  shadow  crossed  his  face.  "There  were 
a  lot  who  weren't,  you  know.  You,  and  dear  old  Tay- 
lor— I'll  never  forget  all  you've  done  for  me.  If  you 
want  to  act,  dear,  I'll  write  you  a  play  that  will  make 
you  the  biggest  actress  in  the  country.  You  know  I 
can  do  it.  I've  proved  that — now,  I  guess." 

He  turned  and  glanced  about  the  room,  as  the  waiter 
arrived  with  the  sandwiches  and  the  wine. 

"There's  Paulson,  over  there,"  he  said,  nodding  and 
smiling  to  a  couple  at  a  table  across  the  room.  "He's 
got  that  Vincent  girl  with  him.  She  was  asking  me, 
to-night,  to  write  Tier  a  play.  Told  me  a  long-winded 
plot — I  forget  what  about." 

Miss  Gordon  scrutinized  the  girl  critically.  Then 
she  laughed. 

"That  little  idiot !  She  certainly  has  nerve.  I  don't 
doubt  though  that,  now  you've  made  good,  everybody 
in  the  company,  down  to  the  woman  who  plays  the 
nursemaid,  will  be  after  you  to  write  plays  for  them. 
It's  the  usual  thing." 

"I  suppose  so.  However,  I  can  pick  and  choose, 
now.  Edgerton  wants  me  to  do  something  for  him, 
next  season." 

"What — the  comedian  ?" 

"Yes." 

"H-m !  He'll  want  to  write  half  of  it  himself,  and 
put  his  name  on  the  bills  as  co-author.  He  always 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  35 

iloes.  You  can't  afford  to  bother  with  people  like  that. 
Take  my  advice,  Dick.  Make  yourself  more  import- 
ant. You're  too  nice  to  people — too  agreeable.  Put 
these  second-rate  actors  in  their  place.  Let  them  run 
after  you.  You've  got  to  do  that,  in  this  game.  If 
you're  nice  and  accommodating,  they'll  despise  you. 
If  you  take  no  notice  of  them,  and  let  them  beg  you 
for  stuff,  they'll  think  you're  the  greatest  ever.  That's 
the  game,  along  Broadway.  Don't  depreciate  yourself. 
Eemember  that  you're  a  successful  author,  now."  She 
raised  her  glass,  and  looked  at  him  with  glowing  eyes 
over  the  rim.  "To  the  play !"  she  said. 

"And  to  you!"  He  took  a  sip  of  the  wine.  "Do 
you  know,  dear,  it's  your  love — the  fact  that  we  are 
going  to  be  married,  that  malkes  me  so  happy  to- 
night ?  Of  course,  I'm  glad  about  the  play,  more  glad 
than  I  can  tell  you.  But  this  thing  between  us  is  a 
bigger  thing.  I  like  to  feel  that,  even  if  the  play  had 
not  succeeded,  you  would  have  come  to  me,  and  said: 
'Never  mind.  We  love  each  other,  and  that  is  more 
important  that  a  hundred  plays.'  " 

"You  know  I  would,  dear,"  she  said,  her  voice  very 
low,  very  soft  and  caressing.  "Didn't  I  love  you — even 
before  to-night  ?" 

"God  bless  you — yes.  I'm  the  happiest  and  the 
luckiest  man  in  the  world."  He  began  to  eat  hungrily. 
"I  feel  better  already,"  he  said,  between  mouthfuls. 
"You'll  never  know,  Inez,  how  tired  I've  been  for  the 
past  five  weeks.  Sometimes,  when  I've  got  up  in  the 
morning,  I've  felt  as  though  I  simply  couldn't  go  on. 
The  terrible  nervous  strain  of  the  thing — the  loss  of 


36  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

sleep — the  irregular  eating.  I  tell  you,  if  it  had  kept 
up  for  another  month,  I'd  have  been  on  my  back  in  a 
hospital." 

"I  know  it,  dear.  You're  terribly  run  down.  Why 
don't  you  take  a  rest  ?" 

"I  mean  to.  I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do.  I  want 
to  stay  around  town  for  another  week,  to  see  that 
everything  is  going  smoothly,  and  settle  up  some  busi- 
ness matters,  and  then  we'll  be  married,  and  go  down 
to  Atlantic  City  for  a  month  or  so,  just  as  a  sort  of 
preliminary  honeymoon."  He  looked  at  her  eagerly. 
"What  do  you  say  ?" 

"I  think  it  would  be  wonderful.  You  know  how  I 
love  the  sea.  And  we  could  work  together,  on  that  play 
for  me — just  -a  little,  each  day,  you  know,  so  as  not 
to  tire  you." 

"I'd  rather  forget  work,  for  a  while,"  he  said.  "If 
I  have  you,  it  will  be  quite  enough,  I  guess,  to  occupy 
my  time." 

She  joined  in  his  laugh. 

"All  right,  dear,  just  as  you  say.  But  I'd  be  willing 
to  bet  that  at  the  end  of  a  week  you'd  be  wanting  to 
do  something.  You  couldn't  help  it.  Your  brain  is 
so  active !  You  see,  I  know  you  better  than  you  know 
yourself." 

As  she  spoke,  Paulson,  the  stage-director,  came  over 
from  the  opposite  table. 

"I  don't  think  I  had  an  opportunity  to  congratulate 
you,  Eandall,"  he  said,  extending  his  hand.  "Looks  like 
it  got  over  in  great  shape." 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  37 

"Thanks."    He  shook  Paulson's  hand  warmly.    "Let 
me  present  you  to  Miss  Gordon." 
The  two  bowed. 

"Miss  Vincent  tells  me,"  Paulson  said  with  a  smil- 
ing glance  at  his  companion  across  the  room,  "that  you 
are  going  to  do  a  play  for  her.  Glad  to  hear  it.  A 
girl  with  remarkable  talent,  Randall.  I've  known  her 
for  some  time,  and  I'm  greatly  interested  in  her." 

Randall  suddenly  remembered  that  it  was  to  Paul- 
son that  Miss  Vincent  owed  her  position  in  the  cast. 

"I — I  was  talking  to  her  about  the  matter  to-night," 
he  stammered.  "I'd  be  glad,  to  do  a  play  for  her, 
sometime." 

"Fine.  I  want  you  to.  Tell  you  what — when  I 
see  you  to-morrow,  we'll  make  an  appointment,  and 
go  up  to  her  apartment — she  lives  at  the  Arlington, 
you  know — and  we'll  go  over  an  idea  she  has,  and  block 
out  a  scenario.  She's  been  telling  me  about  it.  Sounds 
pretty  good.  Of  course,  furnishing  the  plot,  she  might 
want  a  piece  of  the  thing — say  twenty-five  per  cent., 
but  that  could  be  adjusted  later." 

Randall  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  companion's  eyes 
through  the  haze  of  the  smoke  from  his  cigarette.  There 
was  a  curious  glitter  in  them,  which  he  had  never 
observed  before. 

"I'm  afraid  Mr.  Randall  is  too  worn  out  to  attempt 
any  new  work  at  present,"  she  said,  pointedly.  "He 
has  just  been  telling  me  he's  thinking  of  going  away 
for  a  long  rest." 

Paulson  flashed  a  quick,  inquiring  glance  at  the  girl, 


38  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

evidently  wondering  where  her  interest  in  the  matter 
lay. 

"Time  enough,"  he  said  suavely.  "Couldn't  do  any- 
thing, now,  before  next  season,  anyway.  See  you 
later."  He  nodded  to  Randall,  bowed  silently  to  Miss 
Gordon  and  recrossed  the  room. 

Miss  Vincent  looked  over,  and  gave  Randall  a  bright 
smile.  She  was  a  pretty  girl,  with  very  large  eyes 
and  a  superb  complexion. 

Inez  frowned  slightly. 

"For  goodness'  sake,  Dick,"  she  said,  "don't  let 
people  like  that  make  a  fool  of  you.  That  girl's  nothing 
but  a  little  fluff.  She  can't  act,  and  never  could.  Paul- 
son wants  to  do  something  for  her,  of  course.  He's 
crazy  about  her.  Don't  let  them  get  you  tied  up. 
Twenty-five  per  cent,  interest,  indeed!  Ridiculous!" 

"Don't  worry,"  said  Randall,  laughing.  "I'm  not 
going  to  get  tangled  up  in  any  such  propositions.  You 
see,  I  never  could  work  on  other  people's  ideas,  any- 
way. Don't  see  why  I  should,  in  fact.  I've  got  plenty 
of  my  own.  .  .  .  Yes,  you  serve  it,"  he  said  to  the 
waiter,  who  came  up  with  the  blazing  chafing  dish. 

It  was  after  midnight  now,  and  the  character  of  the 
crowd  was  beginning  to  change.  The  after-the-theatre 
parties,  composed,  so  many  of  them,  of  out-of-town  busi- 
ness men  and  their  wives  and  daughters,  feeling  that 
they  had  spent  a  very  riotous  evening  over  their  oysters 
and  beer,  began  to  depart,  and  another  element  began 
to  take  their  place.  This  gradual  change  in  the  character 
of  the  patrons  would  go  on  until  the  early  hours  of  the 


A  LOST  PAEADISE.  39 

morning.  The  real  night  life  had  not  yet  begun,  but 
its  advance  guard  began  to  straggle  in. 

The  change  was  particularly  noticeable  in  the  women. 
There  is  a  striking  difference  in  appearance  between 
those  who  start  homeward  at  midnight,  and  those  who 
are  just  starting  out.  The  men,  too,  were  different, 
being  less  staid  in  appearance,  and  younger.  An  hour 
or  two  later,  still  another  type  of  men  would  appear — 
keen-eyed,  heavy-jawed  individuals,  who  knew  life  and 
the  underworld,  as  neither  of  the  two  preceding  types 
would  ever  know  it.  These  latter  men  came  alone,  to 
eat  with  women  who  were  no  longer  young  or  foolish. 
And  with  them  would  come  the  rattle,  outside,  of  the 
milk  wagon,  and  the  boys  selling  the  morning  papers. 

Randall  eyed  the  changing  throng  without  interest. 
The  night  life  of  New  York  was  an  old  story  to  him, 
now.  "How  tired  I  am  of  it  all !"  he  remarked  as  he 
sipped  his  champagne. 

"Tired  of  what  ?"  Inez,  busy  with  her  clams,  and 
her  dreams  of  early  stardom,  had  not  followed  his 
train  of  thought. 

"This  sort  of  thing."  He  waved  his  cigarette  largely 
about  the  room. 

"Oh!"  She  went  on  with  her  eating.  "I  rather 
like  it,  Dick.  I'm  a  terrible  night-owl,  you  know." 

"Once  in  a  while,  it's  well  enough,  but  I  feel  like 
getting  away — to  the  country — the  sea.  You  love  that, 
too,  don't  you?" 

"Of  course,  I  do.  I  think  Atlantic  City  is  great. 
But  I'd  never  want  to  live  anywhere  except  in  little 
old  New  York.  You  see,  I  was  born  here,  and  I 


40  rA  LOST  PAEADISE. 

suppose  I  can't  get  it  out  of  my  system.  You  weren't. 
That  makes  a  difference.  Just  the  same,  it's  the  only 
place  for  a  man  who's  doing  the  sort  of  work  you're 
doing.  You've  got  to  keep  in  touch  with  things." 

Randall  regarded  her  critically. 

"I  thought,  when  we  are  married,"  he  said,  slowly, 
"that  perhaps  you'd  like  to  take  a  house  up  the  Sound 
somewhere,  say  at  New  London.  Somewhere  where 
we  could  get  to  town  in  a  couple  of  hours,  if  we  had 
to,  but  where  we  could  have  the  water,  and  nature." 

She  laughed  a  thin,  silvery  laugh. 

"I'm  not  very  strong  on  nature,  Dick,"  she  said. 
"Of  course,  I  like  the  country,  but  one  can't  afford  to 
bury  oneself.  You  ought  to  be  where  you  can  see  all 
the  new  shows,  and  belong  to  the  right  clubs,  and  keep 
in  touch  with  life.  I  think  too  much  of  you,  dear  boy, 
to  let  you  lose  yourself  in  the  wilds  of  New  London. 
In  the  summer,  fine;  but  in  winter  your  place  is  right 
here." 

"I  guess  you're  right,"  he  said,  smiling  at  her  enthu- 
siasm. "Perhaps  we'll  have  enough  to  keep  a  studio  in 
town,  and  a  bungalow  at  the  sea-shore  as  well." 

"Of  course,  we  will.  That's  just  my  idea."  She  saw  a 
newsboy  coming  through  the  room  calling  a  morning 
paper.  "Here's  a  boy  with  The  Planet"  she  said. 
"Now,  you  can  see  what  a  great  man  you've  become." 

He  bought  the  paper,  and  opened  it  eagerly,  turning 
at  once  to  the  page  containing  the  dramatic  reviews. 

Inez,  watching  him,  saw  a  sudden  shadow  settle  over 
his  face  like  a  cloud,  through  which  played  lightning- 
like  flashes  of  astonishment  and  pain. 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  41 

"What  is  it,  Dick  ?"  she  exclaimed,  clutching  at  the 
paper. 

He  extended  the  sheet  to  her.  The  headlines  seemed 
to  flame  before  her.  A  sudden  sinking  of  the  heart 
left  her  speechless.  They  read: 

'THE  WINNER'  BELIES  ITS  NAME. 
JANE  ELLIS  DOES  GOOD  WORK  IN  STUPID  PLAY. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

INEZ  GORDON  allowed  the  newspaper  to  drop  from  her 
trembling  fingers.  It  fell  into  the  plate  from  which  she 
had  been  eating,  but  she  was  too  excited  to  notice 
it,  or  to  care,  if  she  had. 

"Dick!"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  voice  thin,  wiry,  tone- 
less. "Isn't  that — rotten!" 

For  a  moment,  he  made  no  reply.  The  shock  had 
been  too  great.  It  seemed  unreal, '  unbelievable,  that 
the  play,  his  play,  which  had  been  so  flatteringly 
received,  so  loudly  applauded,  but  a  few  hours  before, 
should  be  referred  to  in  this  way. 

"Let  me  see  it  again,"  he  said,  in  a  dull  and  tired 
voice.  Even  now,  he  could  scarcely  believe  that  he 
had  read  the  lines  aright. 

He  recovered  the  paper  from  his  companion's  plate, 
and  began,  with  flushed  face,  to  read  the  criticism.  He 
felt  an  unreasoning  hatred  for  the  author  of  it,  a  man, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  quite  unknown  to  him.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  this  man  had  shamefully,  wantonly, 
unjustly  attacked  and  destroyed  his  work,  the  creature 
of  his  brain,  and  in  so  doing  had  destroyed  his  hopes 
for  the  future,  the  joyousness  of  his  love,  the  very 
fabric  of  his  life.  Yet  he  knew  in  his  heart  that  the 
review  was  entirely  impersonal. 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  43 

"Dull  and  full  of  platitudes/'  he  read  at  random. 
"For  the  last  act  there  is  no  excuse  whatever.  The 
writer  evidently  thinks  that  he  has  made  a  discovery 
in  social  economics,  when  he  announces  gravely  that 
'all  men  are  not  born  free  and  equal.'  The  love  scene 
in  the  second  act  is  sentimental  piffle.  One  wonders 
that  managers  can  be  induced  to  spend  money  on  such 
obvious  balderdash.  If  young  -Mr.  Randall,  whoever 
he  may  be,  imagines  that  ISTew  York  is  ready  to  listen 
to  warmed-over  socialistic  tracts,  he  is  sadly  mistaken. 
The  superb  work  of  Jane  Ellis  saved  'The  Winner' 
from  being  a  loser  of  the  worst  type.  It  is  doubtful 
if  even  her  ability  can  drag  it  into  a  second  week." 

He  could  read  no  more.  No  words  rose  to  his  frozen 
lips.  He  handed  the  paper  to  Inez. 

"Read  it,"  he  said. 

She  took  the  paper  from  him,  and  read  the  criticism 
through.  An  angry  gleam  crept  into  her  eyes. 

"It's  a  shame — this  sort  of  thing,"  she  said;  "a 
crime.  It  ought  to  be  stopped.  Has  this  man  anything 
against  you  ?" 

"I've  never  even  met  him,"  Randall  replied,  play- 
ing nervously  with  a  bit  of  bread. 

"Then  he  must  have  it  in  for  Harrison." 

"I  believe  not.  Harrison  told  me  they  were  good 
friends." 

"But — Dick — the  play  could  never  be  as  bad  as  that. 
Of  course,  there  were  some  places — some  scenes  I  didn't 
quite  like.  I'll  admit  the  last  act  was  a  little  tiresome. 
But  you  could  easily  fix  that.  The  rest  of  it  was  great. 
And  the  audience  thought  so,  too." 


44  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

"It  seemed  to  me  so,"  he  said,  his  voice  trembling 
a  little.  "There  were  lots  of  Harrison's  friends  there." 

"Not  so  many;  only  a  couple  of  hundred.  And  I 
heard  lots  of  people  all  around  me  saying  the  finish 
of  the  third  act  was  immense.  Of  course,  that  love  scene 
in  the  second  act  was  a  trifle  long,  but  you  could  so 
easily  cut  it.  I  wouldn't  pay  any  attention  to  the  thing." 
She  crushed  the  paper  in  her  hands.  "The  Planet  isn't 
the  only  paper  in  New  York.  .  .  .  Here,  boy,"  she 
called  to  one  of  the  coat  boys,  who  was  crossing  the 
room.  "See  if  you  can  get  us  some  morning  papers. 
Not  The  Planet.  We've  got  that." 

They  sat  looking  at  each  other,  waiting  for  the  boy 
to  return.  Before  them  a  misty  gulf  seemed  suddenly 
to  have  opened.  To  Randall,  it  meant  that  his  plans 
for  the  future  had  been  rudely  upset;  in  fact,  so  far 
as  he  could  see,  in  the  first  rush  of  his  despair,  there 
was  no  future.  He  had  staked  everything  upon  this 
turn  of  the  wheel,  and,  if  he  lost,  he  lost  everything 
— except  Inez  and  her  love.  That  still  remained  to 
him. 

The  girl's  thoughts  were  somewhat  different.  To 
her,  the  yawning  gulf  separated  them.  They  stood  on 
opposite  sides  of  it.  She  knew  of  Randall's  situation,  his 
financial  situation,  perfectly.  She  knew  that,  should 
this  play  fail,  he  would  be,  for  the  time  being  at  least, 
quite  unable  to  marry  her.  She  herself  had  no  means. 
By  virtue  of  carefully  hoarded  savings,  she  had  hitherto 
managed  to  bridge  the  long  arid  spaces  between  the 
oases  of  profitable  engagements. 

Now,  instead  of  a  summer  with  Dick  at  Atlantic  City, 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  45 

or  in  Europe,  she  was  confronted  by  a  certainty  of 
a  wearisome  stock  engagement  in  some  dull  New  Eng- 
land town,  with  a  new  part  to  learn  each  week,  and 
incessant  rehearsals  day  after  day,  preparing  the  next 
week's  bill  while  playing  six  nights  and  three  matinees 
during  the  current  one. 

She  hated  stock  work.  She  had  dreamed,  with  Dick 
in  her  thoughts,  a  beautiful  dream,  leading  along 
golden  paths  to  the  entrancing  position  of  a  star  with 
a  playwright  for  a  husband.  No  position  in  the  world, 
she  felt,  could  be  so  delightfully  secure.  The  shock 
that  had  come  to  her  was  revolutionary — unbelievable. 
She  refused  to  permit  herself  to  consider  it.  After 
all,  The  Planet  was  but  one  paper  out  of  many.  With 
a  chilling  heart,  she  awaited  the  boy's  return. 

He  came  back  presently  with  two  more  papers. 
Randall  threw  him  a  quarter,  and  seized  upon  one  of 
them  with  feverish  haste.  Inez  took  up  the  other. 

The  one  was  a  dramatic  and  sporting  paper,  in  which 
the  week-day  reviews  were  little  more  than  notices  of 
openings.  They  reserved  their  real  criticisms  for  the 
Sunday  edition.  Randall  threw  it  down. 

"NotKing  here,"  he  said.  "Just  a  notice  that  the 
play  opened,  and  the  cast." 

Inez  passed  him  the  paper  she  held  in  her  hand. 
It  was  a  prominent  journal  of  the  popular  variety, 
and  the  critic  who  represented  it  was  a  noted  one,  both 
for  the  humor  of  his  reviews,  and  for-  the  unbiased 
nature  of  his  opinions.  No  one  had  ever  suggested, 
no  matter  how  they  might  smart  under  his  vitriolic  wit, 
that  he  could  be  bought.  His  headline  was  character- 
istic. 


46  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

"THE  WINNER"  OBJECTS  TO  FILTHY  LUCRE. 
AUTHOR'S  DISTASTE  FOE  IT  LIKELY  To  BE  GRATIFIED. 

Randall  laughed,  in  spite  of  himself.  After  all,  he 
had  too  often  enjoyed  this  man's  "roasts"  at  the  expense 
of  others  to  object  now  that  he  himself  was  the  victim 
of  one.  No  doubt  this  was  funny,  he  thought,  but  was 
it  really  criticism  ?  There  had  been  a  line  in  his  play, 
in  which  one  of  the  characters,  a  young  state  senator, 
had  said :  "I  care  nothing  about  money.  What  I  want 
is  to  know  that  I've  done  my  duty  by  the  men  who 
trusted  me."  Apart  from  the  context  and  situation, 
the  line  became  melodramatic,  lending  itself  readily  to 
burlesque. 

The  critic  had  pounced  upon  it,  and  utilized  it  as  the 
theme  of  his  review.  No  other  line,  no  other  situation 
in  the  play  was  so  much  as  mentioned.  "Money!"  he 
wrote.  "Get  thee  behind  me,  Satan.  I'll  have  none 
of  you,  though  me  che-ild  be  forced  to  work  for  a 
living.  I  cast  it  in  your  teeth,  you  sinful  plutocrats. 
I  live  on  condensed  breakfast  food  and  peanuts.  What 
need  have  I  for  money?  'Tis  trash.  Away  with  it. 
I  am  here  to  hand  out  words,  words,  words.  I  shall 
not  starve,  for,  if  need  be,  I  can  eat  them,  but  no 
U.  S.  currency  for  mine.  The  very  mention  of  the 
word  makes  me  boil  with  indignation,  and  gives  me 
a  pain  in  my  pocket-book." 

So  the  review  went  on  for  half  a  column.  Randall 
felt  the  blood  creep  into  his  face.  He  felt  humiliated, 
degraded.  What  he  had  written,  good  or  bad,  he  had 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  47 

written  sincerely.  He  had  handled  a  problem  of  the 
day  to  the  best  of  his  ability,  really  believing  that  he 
had  pictured,  to  some  extent,  the  evils  which  follow 
the  curse  of  selfishness.  He  would  not  have  felt  so 
bitterly  hurt,  had  the  reviewer  merely  denounced  his 
play  as  weak,  tiresome,  ineffective.  But  to  deride  it, 
to  burlesque  it,  to  hold  it  up  to  scorn,  to  make  it  a 
laughing-stock — surely  this  was  not  a  fair  return  for 
the  sincerity  and  honesty  of  his  effort. 

Inez  was  watching  his  face.  She  had  hoped  after 
the  unfavorable  review  in  The  Planet,  that  the  other 
papers  might  turn  the  tide.  Now  she  began  to  lose 
hope,  although  she  was  too  plucky  to  show  it. 

"That's  not  criticism,"  she  said;  "it's  horse-play — 
buffoonery." 

Randall  laid  down  the  paper. 

"Whatever  it  is,"  he  replied,  "it  kills." 

"You  mean  the  play?" 

"Yes,  the  play — and  something  inside  me."  He 
fingered  a  button  of  his  coat.  "Something  that  no 
amount  of  ordinary  criticism  could  touch.  My  self- 
respect." 

"Nonsense,  Dick!  Don't  let  this  thing  discourage 
you.  He  always  does  it." 

"It  doesn't  discourage  me,  dear.  Nothing  could  do 
that.  But  it  makes  me  say,  'What's  the  use  ?'  It  isn't 
discouragement,  is  it,  if  a  man  refuses  to  pour  water 
into  a  sieve,  when  he  knows  he  can  never  fill  it  up  ? 
I'm  not  discouraged.  I  merely  think  that  New  York 
doesn't  want  the  sort  of  plays  that  I  can  write.  They 
want  other  things — different  things,  things  that  are 


48  rA  LOST  PAEADISE. 

artificial,  funny,  sensational,  risque.  Good  enough,  in 
their  way,  but  not  in  my  line.  Edgerton  was  right.  I 
apparently  don't  write  box-office  plays." 

"Nonsense !    A  good  play  is  always  a  money-maker." 

He  interrupted  her. 

"That  isn't  true.  Some  of  the  best  plays  that  were 
ever  produced  in  New  York  have  been  rank  failures, 
and  some  of  the  worst  have  run  a  season.  People 
don't  want  to  think.  Edgerton  was  right,  but  I'm  not 
going  to  follow  his  advice." 

She  touched  his  hand. 

"You're  not  going  to  be  a  quitter,"  she  said. 

He  straightened  up,  flushing. 

"Never  that,"  he  said.  "You  know  better  than  that. 
I'm  not  going  to  stop  writing.  I  couldn't.  But  I'm 
not  going  to  write  their  kind  of  plays.  I'll  find  an  audi- 
ence, some  time,  for  mine." 

She  realized  the  bitterness  that  gave  rise  to  his  words, 
and  knew  that  it  was  but  a  phase,  which  would  pass, 
with  rest  and  reflection. 

"Let's  go  home,  Dick,"  she  said.  "You're  tired,  and 
so  am  I.  Never  mind  about  the  newspapers.  Wait  for 
the  verdict  of  the  public.  It  has  packed  many  a  show 
that  the  critics  have  damned  up  hill  and  down  dale. 
Go  home  and  get  a  good  night's  rest.  You'll  feel  better 
in  the  morning." 

Their  ride  up-town,  in  a  Broadway  car,  was  a  dia- 
mal  one.  Luckily  it  was  not  long.  Inez  lived  on  Fifty- 
seventh  Street.  Randall  conducted  her  to  her  door, 
and  kissed  her  good-night,  with  little  joy  in  his  heart, 
in  spite  of  the  knowledge  that  she  loved  him.  Hia 


A  LOST  PAEADISE.  49 

hurt  had  been  too  bitter,  too  deep,  to  be  so  lightly 
shaken  off. 

"Good-night,  dear,"  he  said.  I'll  come  up  to-mor- 
row afternoon,  late,  and  we'll  go  to  dinner." 

She  pressed  his  hand  as  she  left  him. 

"Don't  be  discouraged,  now,"  she  said,  "It  may 
be  a  go — yet." 

"It  may  be  a  go — yet."  The  phrase  rang  in  his  ears 
like  the  tolling  of  a  bell.  He  turned  toward  the  sub- 
way station,  at  Fifty-ninth  Street,  then  suddenly 
decided  to  walk  down-town. 

It  was  nearly  two  miles  to  his  boarding-house  on 
Irving  Place,  and  the  fresh  air  of  the  early  spring 
morning  did  him  good.  The  grim  spectres  of  poverty, 
of  failure,  which  had  haunted  him  for  the  past  two 
hours,  began  to  fade  away,  as  the  brisk  walk  smoothed 
out  the  kinks  in  his  jangled  nerves.  He  began  to  feel 
tired — physically  tired  as  well  as  mentally  and  nerv- 
ously so.  When  he  creaked  up  the  steps  to  his  third- 
floor  room,  he  felt  better  than  he  had  since  morning. 

He  threw  himself  into  an  easy  chair,  and  looked 
about  the  room.  It  was  not  very  large,  and  by  no 
stretch  of  the  imagination  could  it  have  been  con- 
sidered luxurious,  but  it  was  home,  for  the  time  being, 
and  he  was  glad  to  return  to  it. 

He  filled  his  pipe,  and  began  to  smoke.  How  strange 
seemed  the  events  of  the  evening !  At  midnight  he 
had  been  planning  a  honeymoon  abroad,  a  summer  in' 
Europe,  a  house  on  the  Sound,  and  a  studio  in  town. 
At  four  in  the  morning,  he  was  wondering  whether  or 
not  he  would  be  able  to  keep  even  this  little  four-walled 


50  A  LOST  PAEADISE. 

place  on  the  third  floor  that  he  called  home.  It  was 
almost  like  the  Arabian  nights — the  story  of  the  beggar, 
for  one  night  made  the  Sultan. 

He  laughed  at  the  irony  of  the  situation,  and,  pick- 
ing up  a  picture  of  Inez  from  his  dressing-table,  kissed 
it  reverently.  How  fine  she  had  been!  How  courage- 
ous !  Not  once,  during  the  dismal  ending  of  the  eve- 
ning which  had  begun  to  joyously,  had  she  failed  him. 
It  pleased  him  to  think  that  she  had  been  even  more 
brave  than  he  himself  had  been.  She  was  a  splendid 
girl.  He  would  make  himself  worthy  of  her  love. 
If  this  play  should  fail,  and  that  was  by  no  means 
certain,  he  would  write  another  that  would  succeed. 
Meanwhile,  to  live,  he  would  get  a  position  on  some 
newspaper  or  magazine.  He  had  done  wrong,  he 
reflected,  to  borrow  the  money  from  Mr.  Taylor.  That 
would  have  to  be  paid  back,  in  any  event.  And  he 
had  felt  so  sure  of  success! 

He  sat  smoking  for  a  long  time.  It  was  nearly 
dawn,  when  he  at  last  crept  into  bed.  By  that  time 
his  mind  was  a  dull  blank.  He  was  so  utterly  tired 
that  nothing  seemed  to  make  any  difference.  His  last 
thought,  as  he  put  out  the  light,  was  that,  if  Harrison 
would  only  keep  the  play  on  for  two  weeks,  and  give 
it  a  chance,  it  would  be  bound  to  succeed,  in  spite 
of  any  criticism,  no  matter  how  adverse. 


CHAPTER  V. 

OPTIMISM  rose  in  the  heart  of  Eichard  Randall,  that 
April  morning,  as  the  sun  rose  in  the  east,  proclaiming 
the  new  day. 

The  clear  freshness  of  the  air,  the  warmth  of  the  sun- 
shine, the  sweetness  of  the  spring,  seemed  to  penetrate 
even  to  the  dull  city  streets,  and  give  them  a  breath  of 
new  life. 

Their  message  sang  loud  in  the  heart  of  Richard  Ran- 
dall, dispelling  the  gloom  of  the  preceding  night,  and 
all  its  disquieting  shadows.  Inez  loved  him.  The  play 
would  surely  prove  a  success.  The  world  seemed  a 
good  place  in  which  to  be. 

He  had  slept  late.  It  was  close  to  eleven  o'clock 
when  he  left  the  house,  and  went  toward  Broadway. 

There  was  a  hotel  at  the  corner,  at  which  he  some- 
times breakfasted.  He  went  into  the  cafe,  gave  his 
order,  and  began  to  look  through  a  pile  of  newspapers, 
which  he  had  secured  at  the  news-stand  as  he  came 
through  the  lobby. 

The  first  of  the  reviews  which  he  read  was  a  favor- 
able one,  and  it  gave  him  a  thrill  of  satisfaction.  The 
paper  in  which  it  appeared  was  solid,  conservative.  It 
seemed  that  the  tide  of  ill  luck,  which  he  had  so  greatly 

51 


52  !A  LOST  PARADISE. 

feared  the  night  before,  had  turned.  With  a  sigh  of 
relief  he  began  to  eat  his  breakfast. 

There  were  a  dozen  or  more  papers  in  the  pile,  some 
morning  editions,  some  afternoon.  He  picked  up  an- 
other with  a  feeling  of  confidence,  after  having  cut  out 
the  first  review  with  his  pocket-knife,  and  laid  it  beside 
his  plate.  Inez  would  wish  to  see  them  all,  he  knew. 

His  confidence  was  short-lived.  Paper  after  paper 
gave  the  play  unfavorable  notices.  Some  of  them,  espe- 
cially the  afternoon  papers,  were  particularly  savage  in 
their  attacks.  It  almost  seemed  to  him  that  in  daring 
to  write  a  play  he  had  committed  a  crime,  for  which 
these  self-appointed  judges  now  proceeded  to  arraign 
him  with  relentless  fury. 

He  felt  bewildered,  unable  to  arrive  at  any  clear 
understanding  of  wherein  he  had  failed.  Criticism,  he 
had  supposed,  should  be  something  more  than  destruct- 
ive. It  was  easy,  indeed,  to  tear  down,  to  destroy.  Yet 
these  people  offered  nothing  to  replace  that  which  they 
condemned ;  in  fact,  no  two  of  them  condemned  the  same 
things.  There  was  no  unanimity  of  opinion,  no  verdict, 
as  it  were.  Each  man  had  a  different  set  of  ideas,  a 
different  reason  for  condemnation.  None  seemed  to 
find  any  for  praise.  The  mere  fact  that  this  newcomer 
had  dared  to  put  forward  a  play  at  all  seemed  sufficient 
reason  for  their  vituperation. 

He  ceased  to  cut  out  the  reviews,  and  sat  for  a  long 
time  staring  at  his  uneaten  breakfast.  All  the  joyous- 
ness,  the  optimism  of  the  day,  had  departed.  The  sun  no 
longer  shone.  A  gray  mist  of  uncertainty,  of  failure, 
closed  about  him,  choking  his  hopes,  dulling  his  enthu- 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  53 

siasm.  Whatever  the  merits  of  his  play,  whatever  be- 
lief he  might  have  in  its  power  to  hold  the  public,  it 
seemed  impossible  that  it  could  succeed  in  the  face  of 
such  attacks. 

He  left  the  table,  and  staggered  out  to  the  bar,  look- 
ing about  furtively  as  he  did  so,  to  see  whether  there 
was  anyone  in  the  lobby  who  might  know  him.  In  the 
raw  and  bleeding  state  of  his  soul,  it  seemed  as  though 
the  whole  world  stood  ready  to  point  the  finger  of  scorn. 
He  did  not  realize  that  in  all  the  vast  and  manifold 
activities  of  this  busy  city,  scarcely  one  person  in  a. 
hundred  thousand  had  enough  interest  in  himself  or  his 
play  to  give  either  five  minutes'  thought. 

He  poured  out  a  drink  with  fingers  trembling  from 
nervousness,  and,  when  the  bar-keeper  ventured  a  re- 
mark about  the  beauty  of  the  morning,  he  started  as 
though  another  accusation  had  been  launched  against 
him  and  his  play.  Over  and  over  he  revolved  it  in  his 
mind,  scene  by  scene,  trying  to  see — to  understand 
wherein  he  had  failed,  if,  indeed,  he  really  had  failed 
at  all.  The  effort  only  left  his  mind  the  more  con- 
fused. 

At  one  o'clock,  he  was  to  be  at  Harrison's  office.  He 
had  made  the  engagement,  the  night  before,  believ- 
ing that  they  would  together  read  the  favorable  criti- 
cisms he  so  confidently  expected.  Later  on,  perhaps, 
Harrison  might  want  to  talk  about  a  second  company, 
to  open  in  Chicago.  He  had  looked  forward  to  the  in- 
terview, anticipating  with  delight  the  congratulations 
of  Harrison  and  his  assistants,  the  probable  requests 


54  A  LOST  PAEADISE. 

for  interviews  from  the  newspapers,  the  admiration  of 
the  many  friends  and  acquaintances  he  would  meet. 

Now,  all  was  changed.  Smarting  under  the  lash  of 
criticism,  he  would  have  given  anything  to  have  avoided 
the  interview  altogether,  yet  he  realized  the  failure  on 
his  part  to  appear  would  be  regarded  as  cowardice,  as 
an  inability  to  "play  the  game." 

Then,  too,  he  knew  that  Harrison  must  face  all  this 
adverse  criticism — Harrison,  and  Paulson,  the  director. 
It  would  be  an  act  of  cowardice  to  let  them  face  it 
alone. 

He  hurried  up  Broadway,  feeling  as  though  every 
person  he  passed  was  saying  under  his  breath,  "There 
goes  Kandall,  the  man  who  just  put  over  the  awful  fail- 
ure at  The  Crown."  In  the  course  of  twenty  blocks,  he 
met  but  three  persons  whom  he  knew.  One  was  Slesin- 
ger,  the  manager  with  whom  he  had  been  talking  the 
night  before.  He  nodded  carelessly,  and  passed  on. 
There  may  have  been  no  intentional  slight  in  his  man- 
ner, but  Kandall,  in  his  unstrung  condition,  imagined 
one,  and  a  flush  of  annoyance  darkened  his  face. 

The  other  two  persons  he  knew  were  Edgerton,  the 
actor  he  had  met  the  night  before,  and  Vance,  Harri- 
son's press-man.  The  former  stopped,  and  shook  hands. 

"How's  everything  going  ?"  he  asked,  genially. 

Randall  winced. 

"You've  seen  the  papers  ?"  he  asked. 

"No ;  just  got  up.    Did  they  knock  ?" 

"Yes.     Something  awful !" 

Edgerton  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"You  know  what  I  told  you  about  the  socialistic 


'A  LOST  PAEADISE.  55 

stuff  last  night,"  he  said.  "Remember  it,  next  time. 
And  don't  let  the  papers  worry  you.  They  may  be 
wrong,  too."  He  nodded  and  started  on.  "Don't  mind 
if  I  hurry,  old  chap.  Breakfast,  you  know.  So  long." 

It  was  in  the  next  block,  near  the  theatre,  that  he 
met  Vance.  The  latter  looked  exceedingly  glum.  He 
nodded  to  Randall,  and  passed  on.  There  was  no  mis- 
taking the  curtness  of  his  greeting,  and  Randall  could 
not  refrain  from  comparing  it  with  the  enthusiasm  of 
his  manner  the  evening  before.  All  of  a  sudden,  he 
began  to  realize  just  what  failure  really  meant,  just  how 
many  doors  it  closed,  that  success  flung  wide.  He 
crushed  down  his  pride,  swallowed  hard,  for  his  throat 
seemed  singularly  dry,  and  went  up  the  steps  that  led 
to  Harrison's  office. 

The  latter's  secretary  met  him,  rather  solemn  of  face. 

"Mr.  Harrison  won't  be  down  until  later,"  he  said. 
"I  just  had  him  on  the  'phone.  He  said  you  could  see 
Mr.  Paulson." 

The  latter  came  out  at  that  moment. 

"Hello,  Randall,"  he  said,  with  an  assumption  of 
cheeriness  which  the  latter  knew  he  did  not  feel.  "Just 
going  to  lunch.  How  are  you  standing  the  shock,  this 
morning  ?" 

"Pretty  well,"  Randall  replied,  with  a  rather  mirth- 
less smile.  Then,  as  Paulson  seemed  about  to  leave,  he 
added,  "I'll  walk  along  with  you,  if  I  may.  We  can 
talk  as  we  go." 

"Sure.  Glad  to  have  you.  I'd  ask  you  to  lunch,  but 
I've  got  an  appointment  at  the  club." 

"Thanks.    I've  just  had  my  breakfast,  anyway.    And 


56  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

then  I'm  not  hungry.  You  haven't  seen  Harrison,  of 
course  ?" 

"'No.  Had  him  on  the  'phone.  He  won't  show  up 
till  about  four." 

"Does  he  want  to  see  me,  do  you  think  ?" 

Paulson  glanced  quickly  at  his  companion. 

"I  guess  not,"  he  said.  "I  imagine  he  feels  sort  of 
blue  about  the  notices,  the  same  as  the  rest  of  us.  Of 
course,  we  all  pretend  to  pay  no  attention  to  them,  but 
when  a  show  gets  hit  as  hard  as  this,  it's  handicapped 
from  the  start,  and  there's  no  use  denying  it." 

"You — you  think  he  will  take  it  off  ?"  Randall  asked, 
huskily. 

"Not  if  it  does  any  business,  of  course.  Harrison 
has  plenty  of  nerve.  He  isn't  the  sort  to  throw  up  the 
sponge  after  the  first  round.  I  guess  he'll  keep  it  on  a 
week  or  two,  and  see  what  happens." 

"What  do  you  think?"  Randall's  voice,  thin  and 
metallic  in  timbre,  showed  very  plainly  the  nervous 
strain  under  which  he  was  laboring. 

"I  ?  Well,  it's  a  pretty  hard  thing  to  say.  You  know 
what  the  season  has  been.  Half  the  so-called  successes 
in  town  are  starving  to  death.  Only  being  kept  on  to 
establish  a  value  for  stock.  I  can't  say  what  the  public 
will  do,  of  course.  They  may  come.  But  in  a  season 
like  this,  when  it  seems  as  though  you  had  to  fairly 
drag  them  to  the  theatre  and  chain  them  in  their  seats, 
I  doubt  it.  Wish  I  could  encourage  you,  old  chap.  I'd 
like  to,  God  knows.  As  a  director,  it's  not  anything  to 
my  credit  to  put  on  a  failure.  But  I  suppose  you  want 
the  truth,  don't  you,  and  not  a  lot  of  hot  air  ?" 


'A.  LOST  PAEADISE.  57 

"Yes,  I  want  the  truth.  But  after  the  way  the  play 
went  last  night,  it  doesn't  seem  as  though  what  the 
papers  said  could  be  the  truth." 

"Never  trust  a  first-night  audience,  my  boy.  They 
applaud,  because  they  think  they're  there  to  applaud, 
and  then  go  home  and  knock.  I  thought  we  had  a  win- 
ner, myself,  I'll  admit ;  but  they  tell  me  at  the  box-office 
there's  no  sale  at  all.  May  pick  up,  of  course,  but  the 
house  will  look  like  a  morgue  to-night  unless  they  paper 
it.  Of  course,  they  will,  too.  Harrison  won't  let  The 
Crown  show  up  badly,  if  he  has  to  give  away  every  seat 
in  the  house.  He  thinks  more  of  that  theatre  than  any- 
thing in  the  world,  except  his  wife Well,  so 

long.  I'm  due  at  the  club  at  one-thirty.  See  you  later." 
He  was  gone  almost  before  Eandall  realized  it. 

In  spite  of  the  brilliant  spring  sunshine,  the  hurrying, 
laughing  crowds,  the  air  of  care-free  prosperity,  Broad- 
way seemed  horrible  to  Randall  now.  For  nearly  two 
years  he  had  dreamed  of  walking  down  it,  some  day, 
with  the  knowledge  that  he  was  part  of  its  wonderful 
life.  Now,  he  felt  himself  but  a  discarded  bit  of  flot- 
sam, a  useless  thing,  cast  aside,  because  he  had  been 
found  wanting. 

He  wandered  over  toward  Sixth  Avenue,  wondering 
whether  or  not  he  should  go  up  and  see  Inez.  True, 
he  had  told  her  that  he  would  not  come  until  late,  but 
somehow  his  heart  yearned  for  her.  He  felt  that,  with 
her,  he  might  forget  the  bitterness,  the  sickening  pain 
that  held  him  in  its  grip.  He  determined  to  call  her 
up,  and  suggest  that  they  have  luncheon  together,  and 
take  a  walk  in  the  park. 


58  A  LOST  PAEADISE. 

He  stepped  into  a  restaurant  at  the  corner,  and  rang 
up  her  number.  The  call  was  answered  bj  the  boy 
who  operated  the  switchboard.  Miss  Gordon  had  just 
gone  out,  he  informed  Kandall,  and  had  left  word  that 
she  would  not  return  until  half-past  four. 

Eandall  went  over  to  a  table  in  the  corner,  and  or- 
dered a  drink.  He  could  think  of  nothing  else  to  do, 
and  he  felt  that  he  must  have  something,  to  drive  this 
gloom  from  his  heart,  and  give  him,  even  though  but 
temporarily,  some  feeling  of  well  being.  He  had  over 
two  long  hours  to  kill  before  he  could  meet  Inez.  He 
thought  of  going  home,  but  it  seemed  as  though  the 
mere  idea  of  sitting  alone  in  that  little  room  for  two 
hours  would  drive  him  mad.  Here,  at  least,  there  were 
people  j  here  was  life — the  life  that,  cruel  and  heartless 
as  he  sometimes  felt  it  to  be,  he  secretly  loved. 

The  waiter  came  up  with  the  drink,  and  remained 
hovering  about  expectantly.  Eandall  ordered  a  chop, 
and  sent  him  away.  He  wanted  to  be  alone  with  his 
thoughts.  Just  at  the  moment  he  was  wondering  why 
Inez  had  gone  out.  Was  it  to  look  for  an  engagement  ? 
He  knew  that  before  long  the  companies  for  summer 
stock — that  melancholy  grind! — would  be  forming. 
Poor  little  girl !  What  a  difference  all  this  was  going  to 
make  to  her! 

He  forced  himself  to  eat,  and,  after  he  had  done  so, 
felt  once  more  a  stirring  of  the  old  optimism  within  him. 
Once  more  he  said  to  himself,  in  spite  of  the  evidence 
to  the  contrary,  that  success  might  still  come,  that  the 
public  might  see  in  the  play  that  which  the  critics  had 
failed  to  see.  He  started  off  to  meet  Inez,  with  some 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  59 

measure  of  courage  in  his  heart,  and  a  grim  determina- 
tion to  succeed,  in  spite  of  anything  and  everything 
that  opposed  him. 

She  had  come  in  a  short  time  before,  and  was  dress- 
ing. He  waited  in  the  little  parlor,  separated  from  the 
bedroom  by  a  pair  of  tapestry  curtains.  Presently, 
Inez  came  through  them,  wearing  a  rose-silk  kimono, 
and  flung  herself  wearily  upon  a  divan. 

"Dick,"  she  cried,  "I'm  so  tired !" 

He  came  over  to  her  at  once,  and,  kneeling  on  the 
floor,  put  his  arms  about  her,  and  kissed  her. 

"Are  you,  dear  ?"  he  said.  "I'm  so  sorry !  What 
have  you  been  doing  all  day  ?" 

"Looking  for  an  engagement,  of  course.  There 
isn't  anything  else  to  do — now." 

"Inez !"  His  voice  held  a  note  of  reproach.  "Don't 
say  it — that  way.  Things  may  be  all  right,  after  all." 

She  laughed  that  curious  laugh  which  somehow  al- 
ways reminded  him  of  thin  silver  wire. 

"With  a  panning  like  that?     Never  in  a  thousand 


He  rose,  and  walked  up  and  down  the  tiny  room 
for  several  moments  in  silence.  Inez  had  apparently 
lost  hope ;  her  voice,  her  manner,  her  words,  all  showed 
it.  And  the  night  before  she  had  been  so  brave ! 

"You  said,  last  night,  dear,  that  we  must  wait  for 
the  verdict  of  the  public." 

"I  know,  but  I  never  expected  anything  like  this.  It 
wouldn't  be  so  bad,  if  the  critics  had  just  condemned  the 
play,  but  they've  made  it  a  joke.  The  whole  town  is 
laughing  at  it.  I've  been  around,  to-day,  and  I  know." 


60  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

He  turned  away  for  a  moment  to  hide  the  spasm  of 
pain  that  crossed  his  face. 

"At  least,  dear,"  he  said  at  length,  "we  have  each 
other." 

The  girl  laughed,  a  bit  harshly. 

"It  doesn't  look  that  way,"  she  exclaimed.  "I'll  prob- 
ably spend  the  summer  in  some  wretched  little  hole, 
twenty  miles  from  nowhere." 

"You  mean  then,"  he  asked,  gazing  down  at  her, 
"that  you're  not  going  to  marry  me  on  account  of  this  ?" 

Inez  sat  up,  and  rested  her  chin  upon  her  two  hands. 
For  a  long  time  she  sat,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  ara- 
besque pattern  of  the  rug  upon  the  floor.  The  curious 
birds  and  flowers  that  covered  it  seemed  to  dance  mer- 
rily to  some  silent  tune.  Presently  she  looked  up. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  marry  you,  Dick  ?"  she  asked. 

"Yes — you  know  that.  I  love  you.  How  can  I  help 
wanting  you  to  marry  me  ?" 

"You  mean— now  ?"    She  searched  his  face.  "Now  ?" 

"To-day,  if  you  will."  Impulsively,  he  sat  down  be- 
side her,  and  took  her  in  his  arms.  "In  all  this  disap- 
pointment, this  suffering — I  need  you  more  than  ever." 

For  a  moment,  she  yielded  to  his  kisses.  A  strange 
wave  of  maternity  swept  over  her — strange,  because  to 
her  quite  foreign.  Some  sense  of  the  hurt,  the  wounded 
boyish  pride  of  the  man,  made  her  want  to  comfort  him, 
to  smooth  the  hard  lines  from  his  tired  face.  Then  the 
absurdity  of  the  situation  rose,  grinning  before  her.  She 
knew  that  Randall  was,  for  the  moment  at  least,  poorer 
even  than  she  herself,  and  how  much,  or  little,  that 
meant,  she  fully  realized. 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  61 

"Dick,"  she  cried,  drawing  back,  and  pushing  him 
gently  away,  her  hands  on  his  shoulders.  "Don't  you 
see  that,  as  things  are  now,  it's  out  of  the  question? 
We'd  starve." 

He,  also,  knew  that  she  was  right. 

"I  know,  dear,"  he  replied.  "I  should  not  have  said 
to-day.  But  we  may  not  have  to  wait  very  long.  I'm 
sure  that  Harrison  will  keep  the  play  on  for  a  month, 
at  least,  and  I  believe,  even  now,  that  it  will  make  good. 
My  royalties  for  a  month  ought  to  be  a  couple  of  thou- 
sand, anyway,  and,  then,  there's  that  other  play — the 
one  Slesinger  has.  He  promised  me  the  other  night  to 
read  it  at  once.  And,  if  they  put  'The  Winner'  on  the 
road,  after  a  month  in  town,  I'll  get  a  good  weekly  in- 
come from  it — plenty  for  us  to  live  on.  And,  if  the  very 
worst  happens,  I  know  I  can  get  a  position  on  some 
newspaper,  or  magazine,  which  would  pay  me  enough 
for  us  to  get  along  on,  until  things  take  a  turn.  Isn't 
it  better  for  us  to  face  things  together  than  to  spend 
the  summer  alone  ?" 

He  pleaded  well,  and  for  a  moment  his  arguments 
swayed  the  girl.  ]^o  one  in  the  world  realized  quite 
how  she  hated  the  summer  work  in  stock. 

"Why  not  wait  for  a  week  or  two,  Dick  ?"  she  tempo- 
rized, "and  see  how  the  play  does  get  along  ?" 

"Very  well.  Perhaps  that  would  be  better.  And 
you'll  not  arrange  anything  else  for  the  summer  ?"  He 
knew  what  her  day  at  the  theatrical  agencies  meant — 
knew  that  at  any  moment  an  engagement  might  be 
offered  her  to  which  an  immediate  answer  would  be  re- 
quired. 


62  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

"No,  Dick ;  not  yet.  You  know  how  much  I  love  you. 
You  know  that  I  want  to  be  with  you,  more  than  any- 
thing in  the  world.  But  we've  got  to  be  sensible,  dear. 
If  we  must  wait — we  must.  I  have  a  career — so  have 
you.  There  are  certain  things,  in  marriage — "  she 
hesitated,  embarrassed — "certain  results,  you  know,  that 
would  wreck  everything.  We  can't  afford  to  do  that. 
Let's  wait  a  while,  and  be  sure." 

"Very  well,  dear,"  he  said,  and  kissed  her  again. 

There  was  a  sharp  jangling  of  the  telephone  bell. 
Inez  rose  to  answer  it.  Her  replies  were  monosyllabic, 
being  confined  to  yes  and  no.  The  former  occurred  the 
more  often.  With  a  gesture  of  impatience  she  hung  up 
the  receiver,  and  turned  to  Randall. 

"Steinfeldt  just  called  me  up,"  she  said.  "He  wants 
to  see  me." 

"Steinfeldt?    Why?" 

"I — I  don't  know — exactly."  She  came  over  to  him, 
and  began  to  play  with  the  button  of  his  coat,  her  eyes 
ever  so  slightly  veiled,  her  manner  ingenuous,  childish. 
"You  see,  Dick,  I  heard,  on  Broadway,  to-day,  that  he 
was  looking  for  a  woman,  for  the  summer  show,  to  play 
a  straight  part — no  songs.  The  thing's  got  a  plot,  it 
seems.  So,  I  went  over  and  called  on  him.  He  was 
out,  but  I  had  a  little  talk  with  his  brother,  Isidor.  He 
seemed  to  think  that  I  might  be  just  what  they  wanted 
— type,  you  know.  Now  Ray  calls  me  up,  and  wants 
me  to  take  dinner  with  him,  and  talk  the  matter  over." 

"Rather  unusual,  it  sees,  to  me,  to  ask  you  to  dinner. 
You're  going?" 

".Yes.    I  told  him  I  would.    Don't  be  silly,  dear.    At 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  63 

least  I  can  hear  what  he  has  to  say.  It  may  be  a  splen- 
did chance,  and  would  keep  me  right  here  in  town,  all 
summer.  That  would  mean  a  lot,  you  know,  because  we 
could  see  each  other  every  day." 

"But  about  our — marriage  ?" 

"Oh,  the  rehearsals  of  this  thing  don't  begin  for  two 
or  three  weeks.  I  wouldn't  sign  any  contract — yet.  If 
things  go  all  right  with  us  I'd  simply  drop  out,  that's 
all.  And  if  they  don't,  I'd  be  sure  of  a  hundred  a  week 
or  more  all  summer,  and  that  would  help  some,  dear 
boy,  wouldn't  it  ?" 

Randall  had  turned,  and  was  gazing  out  over  the  roofs 
of  the  city,  upon  which  the  late  afternoon  sun  was  lay- 
ing its  fingers  of  gold.  There  seemed  something  sym- 
bolic about  the  sunshine — the  golden  sunshine  of  suc- 
cess, which  had,  apparently,  passed  him  by.  How  bitter 
this  sense  of  failure !  Even  now  it  was  taking  Inez 
away  from  him,  driving  her  to  dinner  with  a  man  whom 
he  at  heart  despised,  but  whose  success  gave  him  a 
power  which  he,  Randall,  could  not  oppose.  He  turned 
to  the  girl,  with  a  tired  smile. 

"I'm  selfish,  I  know,"  he  said.  "I  had  wanted  you 
with  me,  to-night,  but  I  guess  you  are  right.  If  Stein- 
feldt  can  offer  you  a  good  engagement,  I  suppose  you. 
ought  to  take  it — at  least  until  we  see  how  things  turn 
out." 

She  flung  her  arms  impulsively  about  his  neck,  and 
kissed  him. 

"You  dear!"  she  said.  "I  knew  you  would  see — 
would  understand.  We'll  dine  together  to-morrow,  in- 
stead. And,  if  I  were  you,  I'd  call  up  Taylor,  and  have 


64  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

a  talk  with  him.  He  was  there,  last  night,  as  you  know, 
and  he'll  be  expecting  to  see  you." 

"I  know."  Mechanically  he  picked  up  his  hat.  "I 
ought  to  have  seen  him,  before,  but — somehow,  I  just 
couldn't.  He's  been  such  a  brick  all  these  months — 
he's  believed  in  me  so !  I  felt  ashamed.  I  was  going 
to  see  him  to-morrow,  but  I'll  do  it  to-night,  instead." 

"Do.  And  to-morrow  you  can  tell  me  all  about  it." 
She  put  her  arm  through  his,  and  drew  him  toward  the 
door.  "You  will  have  to  run  along  now,  sweetheart. 
I've  barely  time  to  dress.  Steinfeldt's  coming  up  in 
his  machine,  at  six-thirty,  and  I've  got  to  look  my 
best,  you  know.  Good-night."  She  kissed  him  again, 
a  trifle  hurriedly.  "Don't  worry.  Everything  is 
going  to  turn  out  all  right  for  us.  I  know  it." 

Randall  groped  his  way  to  the  elevator.  Somehow, 
life,  for  the  moment,  seemed  singularly  dull  and  barren. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

BEING  a  bachelor,  Edmund  Taylor  usually  dined  at 
his  club.  He  was  just  on  the  point  of  leaving  his  office, 
when  Randall's  telephone  message  came,  and  he  at 
once  asked  the  latter  to  take  dinner  with  him. 

"I've  been  expecting  to  hear  from  you  all  day,"  he 
said,  in  his  big,  cheery  voice.  "Meet  me  at  the  club, 
and  we'll  have  a  chance  to  talk  things  over,  as  we  eat." 

Half  an  hour  later,  they  were  seated  at  one  of  the 
small  tables,  in  the  club  dining-room.  The  two  long 
tables  in  the  middle  of  the  room  were  already  partially 
filled  with  men  prominent  in  the  theatrical  world. 
Randall  was  acquainted,  personally,  with  only  a  few 
of  them,  but  the  faces  of  nearly  all  were  well  known 
to  him.  A  noted  comedian,  as  famous  for  his  rapid- 
fire  succession  of  marriages  and  divorces  as  for  his 
ability  as  an  actor,  was  telling  a  funny  story,  which 
had  set  the  whole  table  in  a  roar. 

An  atmosphere  of  jollity,  of  good-fellowship,  per- 
vaded the  place.  Under  its  genial  influence,  Randall 
began  to  feel  his  dejection  slipping  away  from  him. 

Taylor  nodded  to  many  of  the  men  as  they  entered, 
and  exchanged  a  word  here  and  there,  as  he  and 
Randall  made  their  way  to  their  table. 

"Bradley  was  just  telling  me  he  saw  the  show  last 

65 


66  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

night,"  he  said,  nodding  toward  a  slim,  light-haired 
man  wearing  eye-glasses.  "Said  he  thought  it  might 
have  a  chance." 

Eandall  eyed  the  popular  playwright  with  a  slight 
feeling  of  envy.  "I  hear  he's  making  nearly  four 
thousand  a  week,"  he  said. 

Mr.  Taylor  closed  one  eye  slowly  in  a  comical  wink 
"He  has  a  press-agent,  my  boy,"  he  said. 

"Well,  I  only  wish  I  were  making  a  tenth  of  it," 
remarked  Randall,  as  he  attacked  the  bread  and  butter 
with  unnecessary  vigor. 

"You  will,"  his  companion  laughed.  "Don't  be  dis- 
couraged, just  because  you've  got  a  few  hasty  criti- 
cisms." 

"I'm  not  discouraged.  It  isn't  the  money  I  care 
about.  It's  the  not  making  good,  after  friends,  like  you, 
have  backed  me.  I  tell  you  that  hurts." 

"Well,  if  I'm  not  losing  confidence  in  your  work, 
I  don't  see  why  you  should." 

"And  you  mean  to  say  you  haven't  ?" 

"Not  a  bit  of  it.  You're  bound  to  make  good,  in 
the  end.  You  have  the  dramatic  instinct." 

Randall  crumbled  a  bit  of  bread  in  silence. 

"That's  a  big  thing  for  you  to  say,  Mr.  Taylor," 
he  exclaimed  at  length.  "I  can't  tell  you  how  much 
I  appreciate  it." 

"Nonsense!  I  understand  this  dramatic  game  back- 
wards. It's  the  toughest  one  to  go  up  against  that 
I  know,  and  most  people  think  it's  as  easy  as  rolling 
off  a  log.  Why,  there  are  millions  of  people  who 
think  they  can  write  plays — literally  millions,  and 


'A  LOST  PAEADISE.  67 

how  many  are  there,  to-day,  who  are  doing  it — writing 
plays  that  succeed,  I  mean  ?  About  twenty.  Think  of 
it.  Think  of  the  odds  against  you.  Yet,  every  day, 
I  meet  people  who  tell  me  they  have  written  a  play, 
and  want  my  advice  and  help.  Only  the  other  day, 
a  woman  who  writes  for  our  magazine — a  clever 
woman,  too — sent  me  a  manuscript  to  read.  Will  you 
believe  it,  when  I  tell  you  that  the  first  act  was  just 
eight  minutes  long,  and  the  whole  play  wouldn't 
have  run  an  hour  ?  Of  course,  you  expect  such  things 
as  that,  from  street-car  conductors,  or  old  ladies  out 
in  South  Bend,  Indiana,  when  they  write  plays  to 
get  enough  money  to  pay  off  the  mortgage  on  the  farm ; 
but  you'd  think  that  a  clever,  up-to-date  "New  Yorker 
would  study  construction  sufficiently,  before  attempting 
to  write  a  play,  to  know  at  least  how  long  to  make  it." 

"I  suppose  it  looks  so  easy,"  laughed  Eandall,  "that 
they  just  dash  off  an  act  or  two,  over  Sunday,  when  they 
haven't  anything  else  to  do." 

"That's  precisely  it.  Really,  somebody  ought  to 
publish  the  truth  about  playwriting,  just  to  stop  some 
of  the  tragedies  of  it.  There  was  a  woman  who  came 
to  see  a  prominent  manager  here  not  long  ago,  who  had 
taken  a  correspondence  course  in  dramatic  work — had 
a  regular  parchment  diploma  with  a  big  red  seal,  to 
prove  that  she  really  was  a  playwright,  and  not  merely 
an  amateur.  She'd  written  a  play  about  eugenics — 
an  awful  thing,  I  heard — seven  acts,  and  characters 
enough  to  bankrupt  any  manager  with  nerve  enough 
to  produce  it.  Well,  it  seems  her  husband,  a  clerk  in 
a  bank  down  in  Charleston,  West  Virginia,  had  got 


68  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

so  enthused  over  the  thing  that  he'd  thrown  up  his 
position,  drawn  out  his  savings,  and  come  to  New 
York  with  his  wife  to  put  the  thing  on.  They  expected 
to  get  it  all  settled  in  a  few  weeks,  and  then  sit  back 
and  draw  a  couple  of  thousand  a  week  royalties  for 
the  rest  of  their  lives.  Pitiful,  I  think.  I  heard 
afterward  that,  when  the  money  gave  out,  the  man 
drifted  from  one  odd  job  to  another,  until  one  day  he 
just  jumped  into  the  river.  I  don't  know  what  became 
of  the  woman." 

Randall  shuddered. 

"Poor  devil !"  he  said.  "Moths  around  the  flame 
of  success.  I'm  one  myself,  I  guess." 

"Hardly !"  Taylor  reached  over  and  put  his  hand 
on  his  companion's  arm.  "You've  made  a  good  fight. 
You've  tried  to  get  an  intelligent  idea  of  what  you  are 
about,  and  you've  had  something  to  say.  You're  learn- 
ing, and  some  day  you'll  'put  one  over.'  But  you'll 
admit,  now,  won't  you,  that  I  was  right,  when  I  told 
you,  a  year  or  more  ago,  that  it's  a  hard  game  ?" 

"Well,  I  should  say  so!"     Randall  laughed  mirth- 


"After  a  man  has  written  a  play,"  went  on  Taylor, 
"and  sold  it,  and  had  it  properly  produced,  and  gets, 
by  one  chance  or  another,  a  competent  cast,  and  man- 
ages to  escape  damnation  at  the  hands  of  the  critics, 
and  has  hit  upon  an  idea  that  strikes  the  public  at 
the  psychological  moment,  and  has  controlled  a  score 
or  more  of  other  factors  almost  as  important,  why,  then, 
if  he  hasn't  made  a  foolish  contract,  and  gets  the  roy- 
alties that  are  coming  to  him,  he  may,  if  his  play 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  69 

runs  in  New  York  for  a  season,  which  not  one  in  ten 
of  even  the  so-called  successes  does  nowadays — he  may, 
I  say,  granting  all  these  conditions,  make  five  or  six 
hundred  dollars  a  week  for  say  thirty  weeks — that 
would  be  fifteen  thousand  to  eighteen  thousand  dollars, 
from  the  first  of  October  to  the  middle  of  May.  In  the 
case  of  a  phenomenal  success,  with  second,  third  and 
sometimes  even  fourth  companies  playing  simultane- 
ously, in  different  parts  of  the  country,  he  might 
double  that,  or  even  more.  His  agent's  commis- 
sions of  ten  per  cent.,  provided  he  has  employed  an 
agent — and,  if  he  hasn't,  he's  probably  made  a  fool 
contract — have  got  to  be  deducted,  of  course.  There 
you  have  practically  your  top  notch,  say  thirty  or  even 
forty  thousand  during  the  year,  and  even  the  best  of 
them  rarely  manage  to  strike  it  more  than  once  in 
every  two  or  three  years.  That  leaves  your  yearly 
average  about  ten  thousand  dollars.  And  mind  you, 
I've  been  talking  about  unusual  successes.  In  nine 
cases  out  of  ten,  even  if  you've  written  what's  called 
a  success,  and  have  had  a  run  of  three  months  in 
New  York,  and  the  rest  of  the  season  on  the  road, 
you'll  be  lucky  to  have  made  ten  or  twelve  thousand 
out  of  your  play,  and  maybe  you  won't  do  it  again 
for  five  years — possibly  never. 

"It  doesn't  look  so  alluring,  when  you  come  down 
to  the  real  facts,  does  it  ?  All  these  stories  you  read 
in  the  newspapers  about  playwrights  making  a  quarter 
or  half  a  million  during  a  season  come  from  the 
imagination  of  press-agents.  One  prominent  writer 
I  know  did  it,  once,  but  only  because  the  managers 


70  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

who  took  his  play  had  so  little  confidence  in  it  that 
they  refused  to  put  up  more  than  half  the  money 
needed  for  the  production.  Made  him  furnish  the 
other  half,  and,  of  course,  share  to  that  extent  in  the 
profits.  He  didn't  want  to  do  it,  but  he  had  to,  in 
order  to  get  the  play  produced  at  all,  and  it  happened 
to  be  a  big  success.  I  understand  that  the  author's 
share  of  the  profits  was,  during  the  time  of  the  play's 
vogue,  about  two  hundred  thousand  dollars.  Had  he 
received  author's  royalties  only,  instead  of  profits,  he 
would  have  received  perhaps  thirty-five  thousand.  The 
same  man,  by  the  way,  has  written  three  successive 
and  complete  failures  this  past  season. 

"The  thing's  a  gamble,  Randall,  and  takes  a  gambler's 
nerve.  When  you  lose,  don't  squeal.  And,  when  you 
win,  don't  do  as  most  gamblers  do,  and  spend  your 
money  as  though  you  were  a  millionaire.  Bradley 
over  there — "  Taylor  nodded  to  the  fair-haired  young 
man  with  the  glasses — "is  a  corking  good  business 
man.  He  doesn't  dissipate,  and  he  saves  his  money. 
Been  at  the  game  ten  years  or  more,  and  owns  a  part 
interest  in  a  theatre.  He's  an  exception.  The  best 
man  of  the  lot  five  years  ago  isn't  worth  a  dollar  to-day. 
Drink,  of  course — drink  and  women.  You  know,  by 
this  time,  what  a  nerve-racking  life  it  is — how  it  gets 
you,  until  you  feel  sometimes  thaj;  you'd  need  the  con- 
stitution of  a  horse  to  come  through  it  safely.  Any 
gambling  game  is  like  that — it  saps  your  nerves,  your 
energy,  your  vitality,  until  you  are  driven  to  artificial 
stimulation,  and  then — why,  you  generally  go  to  pieces 
as  a  result." 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  71 

"You  certainly  don't  make  the  picture  a  very  attract- 
ive one,"  said  Randall,  gravely. 

"I'm  not  trying  to  make  it  attractive.  I'm  trying 
to  make  it  true.  If,  knowing  it  as  it  is,  you  have  the 
grit  to  keep  at  it,  you  deserve  to  succeed." 

"It  isn't  only  the  grit,  Mr.  Taylor.  It's  to  some 
extent  a  question  of  health  and  strength,  and,  beyond 
that,  a  question  of  money."  He  raised  his  hand,  as 
his  companion  started  to  speak.  "Don't  think  I'd  let 
you  lend  me  any  more,  even  were  you  willing  to  do 
so,  which  I  doubt.  I  never  should  have  borrowed  what 
I  did.  I  never  would,  had  I  not  thought  that  suc- 
cess would  have  come  a  whole  lot  quicker  than  it  has." 

Mr.  Taylor  smiled,  his  cynical,  but  kindly,  smile. 

"I  lent  you  the  money  for  two  reasons,  Randall," 
he  said.  "First,  because  I  knew  you  were  honest; 
and  second,  because  I  knew  you  had  ability.  I  haven't 
changed  my  mind  about  either,  so  let's  drop  the  matter.  I 
haven't  a  doubt  you'll  make  enough  to  pay  me  back, 
out  of  this  play  you've  got  on  now;  but,  if  you  don't, 
there's  the  other  one — the  comedy  you  read  me  some 
weeks  ago.  I'd  be  willing  to  invest  a  couple  of  thou- 
sand in  that,  any  time.  By  the  way,  what's  become 
of  it?" 

Randall's  face  brightened. 

"Slesinger's  got  it.  He  told  me  last  night  he'd 
read  anything  of  mine  right  away." 

"Good!  Slesinger's  a  very  capable  producer.  I 
hope  he  takes  it."  He  glanced  at  his  watch.  "What 
do  you  say  to  running  over  to  the  theatre,  and  seeing 
Jiow  things  are  going?" 


72  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

"All  right.  I  suppose  I'd  better  show  up.  I 
called  on  Harrison  to-day,  but  didn't  see  him.  He'll 
probably  be  in  the  box-office  to-night." 

It  was  after  nine  when  they  arrived  at  the  theatre, 
and  the  first  act  was  nearly  over.  They  stepped  inside 
for  a  moment,  and  glanced  over  the  house.  It  seemed 
to  be  well  filled,  and  the  applause  at  the  end  of  the 
act  was  plentiful  and  spontaneous.  Randall  felt  im- 
mensely encouraged.  With  Taylor,  he  went  to  the 
box-office,  and  found  Harrison  talking  with  his  house- 
manager. 

"How  are  you  ?"  he  said,  rather  shortly.  "Seen  the 
notices,  I  suppose  ?" 

"Yes.    Pretty  bad,  weren't  they  ?" 

"H-m !"  The  manager  rolled  his  cigar  about  in  his 
mouth.  "I  don't  pay  much  attention  to  those  fellows." 

"Pretty  good  house  to-night,"  Randall  ventured, 
tentatively. 

Harrison  smiled,  a  rather  grim  smile. 

"About  two  hundred  dollars,  I  believe,"  he  said. 

"Two  hundred?" 

"Exactly!  And  our  capacity  is  fifteen.  The  rest 
is  paper." 

"What  is  your  honest  opinion  of  the  show,  Mr.  Har- 
rison ?"  Taylor  asked.  He  had  known  the  manager 
slightly  for  years.  "I'm  rather  interested  in  the  suc- 
cess of  our  young  friend  here." 

"It's  a  good  enough  show.  Only  question  is:  Will 
the  public  come  to  see  it?  You  know,  as  well  as  I 
do,  that  it's  all  a  gamble.  Maybe  they  will — maybe 
they  won't.  I  can't  tell.  Nobody  can.  The  box-office 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  73 

is  the  answer."  He  turned,  as  a  youngish  man  with 
glasses  came  up.  They  chatted  aside  for  a  moment. 
Then  Harrison  introduced  the  newcomer.  "Mr. 
Peters,"  he  said,  "shake  hands  with  Mr.  Randall,  the 
author,  and  Mr.  Taylor.  You  know  him,  I  guess." 

Mr.  Peters  laughed. 

"Sure,"  jie  said.  "Say,  Mr.  Randall,  haven't  got 
any  up-to-date  lyrics  in  your  vest  pocket,  have  you?" 

"Lyrics?" 

"Mr.  Peters  is  a  composer,"  Taylor  explained. 
"Wrote  'The  Lightning  Rag,'  and  'The  Whistling 
Tango,'  and  a  lot  more." 

"Not  forgetting  my  latest  success,  'I  should  worry,'  " 
Mr.  Peters  added,  proudly.  "Say,  if  you  think  up 
any  novel  words  drop  in  and  see  me.  I'm  always  on 
the  lookout  for  something  new — Fitzpatrick  Building, 
Tenth  floor.  Find  me  in  usually  from  twelve  to  six. 
There's  money  in  good  songs.  I'll  split  fifty-fifty, 
words  and  music.  How's  the  show  going?" 

"Pretty  fair,"  said  Randall,  a  trifle  dazed. 

"Great  title,  'The  Winner.'  Hope  it's  a  go.  Pity 
you  haven't  got  any  chance  for  a  song  or  two  in  it. 
I've  got  a  couple  of  new  ones — I  guess  they'll  go  into 
Steinfeldt's  summer  review.  They  tell  me  he's  going 
to  have  a  great  bunch  of  skirts  in  it,  this  year.  He 
always  could  pick  'em,  though.  Saw  him  dining  with 
one  at  the  Knickerbocker  to-night.  A  swell  dame, 
believe  me.  Chap  I  was  with  tells  me  he's  nuts  about 
her — going  to  give  her  one  of  the  leads.  Name's 
Gordon,  I  believe.  New  one  on  me,  and  I  thought  I 
knew  them  all.  .  .  .  Well,  so  long,  fellows.  I've  got 


74  A -LOST  PARADISE. 

to  move.  Good  luck  I"  He  passed  out  into  the  lobby, 
and  disappeared  down  the  street. 

Randall  scarcely  heard  what  Harrison  and  Taylor 
were  saying,  although  he  listened  and  replied  mechan- 
ically. He  knew  Peters'  type  well  enough  to  know 
that  no  woman's  reputation  meant  anything  to  him, 
and  yet  the  nasty  slur,  the  intimation,  regarding  Inez 
cut  deep.  After  all,  it  was  no  place  for  a  woman, 
this  world  of  cheap  and  tawdry  imitation.  He  deter- 
mined to  insist  upon  their  immediate  marriage,  no  mat- 
ter how  matters  turned  out  for  the  moment.  Inez 
might  object,  but  he  felt  that  she  loved  him  enough  to 
allow  him  to  overrule  her  objections.  It  would  be  the 
best  thing  for  her  in  the  end,  of  that  he  felt  sure. 

On  the  way  to  the  subway  station,  after  the  per- 
formance, he  mentioned  to  Mr.  Taylor  a  matter  that 
he  had  been  for  some  time  turning  over  in  his  mind. 
It  was,  in  effect,  that  the  latter  should  use  his  influ- 
ence to  get  him  a  position  upon  the  staff  of  some  maga- 
zine, possibly  even  his  own,  thereby  enabling  him  to 
earn  a  living,  while  at  the  same  time  carrying  on  his 
dramatic  work. 

Mr.  Taylor  received  the  suggestion  in  silence.  For 
a  moment  Randall  thought  that  he  had  offended  by 
making  it.  Then  his  companion  spoke. 

"I'll  see  what  I  can  do,  Randall,"  he  said.  "We 
have  no  vacancies,  just  at  present,  but  I  might  be  able 
to  arrange  something  elsewhere.  The  pay  would  be 
small,  and  you'd  have  rather  long  hours,  but  if  you 
want  to  try  it,  why,  I'll  see  what  can  be  done.  If  I 
were  you,  though,  I'd  wait,  and  see  how  this  play 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  75 

turns  out,  and  what  Slesinger  has  to  say  about  the 
-  other  one.  I  don't  want  to  discourage  you,  but,  if  you 
mean  to  write  plays  as  a  profession,  you'll  need  all 
your  time  for  it.  Working  eight  hours  a  day  on  the 
staff  of  a  magazine  will  leave  you  mighty  little  time 
and  energy  for  anything  else.  Think  it  over." 

They  bade  each  other  good-night  at  the  station. 
Taylor  went  up-town,  Eandall  down.  The  latter 
returned  to  his  room  in  a  singularly  dissatisfied  state 
of  mind.  He  had  reached  one  of  those  crises  in  life, 
when  the  foundations  of  things  seem  shifting  sands, 
upon  which  all  attempts  to  build  anything  permanent 
result  in  failure. 

Yet,  Randall  was  not  in  any  way  lacking  in  courage. 
He  was  ready  to  face  any  danger,  any  disaster,  bravely 
enough.  It  was  the  intangible,  lurking  sense  of  help- 
lessness which  he  seemed  unable  to  combat ;  the  shadowy 
presentiment  of  failure,  which,  in  spite  of  all  his 
inherent  optimism,  would  not  down. 

Then,  too,  the  thing  that  he  had  heard  about  Inez 
troubled  him.  He  did  not  doubt  her  in  the  least.  He 
would  rather  have  cut  off  his  right  hand  than  have 
harbored  such  a  thought.  But  he  bitterly  resented  the 
fact  that  the  woman  he  loved  should  even  for  a  moment 
be  placed  in  a  position  in  which  such  gossip,  cheap 
and  foolish  as  he  felt  it  to  be,  was  possible.  He  wanted 
her  all  to  himself,  to  take  her  away  from  the  environ- 
ment of  money-getting  which  surrounded  her.  He  was 
convinced  that,  once  they  were  married,  Inez  would  give 
up  her  ambitions  as  an  actress,  and  content  herself 


76  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

with  the  more  permanent  joys  which  he  believed  their 
life  together  would  bring  her. 

And  it  was  just  here  that  his  powerlessness  made  it- 
self most  felt.  No  subsequent  success,  however  great, 
he  argued,  could  ever  compensate  him  for  a  lack  of 
money  now,  if  that  lack  resulted  in  any  separation 
between  Inez  and  himself. 

A  feeling  almost  superstitious  in  its  nature  filled 
him,  whereby  he  came  to  believe  that  the  happiness 
of  Inez  and  himself  was  in  some  way  irrevocably  bound 
up  with  that  of  his  play — that  the  failure  of  the  one 
would  mean,  inevitably,  the  failure  of  the  other. 

He  could  not  sleep  that  night,  but  tossed  about,  rest- 
less and  troubled,  until  nearly  dawn.  A  physician 
might  have  told  him  that  he  was  on  the  verge  of 
nervous  prostration,  and  that  the  forebodings  which 
oppressed  him  were  nothing  more  than  manifestations 
of  his  condition  of  health,  but  Randall  would  doubt- 
less have  laughed  the  idea  to  scorn,  and  have  persisted 
in  regarding  himself  in  a  light  wholly  tragic. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

WHEN  Richard  Randall  first  came  to  New  York, 
some  two  years  before  the  production  of  "The  Win- 
ner," he  possessed  three  weapons  with  which  he  hoped 
to  achieve  success.  They  were  courage,  health,  and 
ability — no  mean  equipment,  in  truth,  for  his  purpose. 
He  possessed  also  about  five  hundred  dollars  in  money 
and  the  manuscript  of  a  play. 

The  mistake  he  made  lay  in  his  estimation  of  the 
time  that  would  be  required  to  accomplish  his  pur- 
pose, and  of  the  difficulty  of  it.  Like  many  another 
aspirant  for  fame,  he  felt  that  he  could  say,  with 
Caesar,  "I  came,  I  saw,  I  conquered."  It  is  a  glorious 
characteristic  of  youth,  this  miscalculation  of  the 
obstacles  that  block  the  pathway  to  success;  were  they 
visible  in  all  their  grimness,  few,  indeed,  would  have 
the  courage  to  essay  the  task. 

So  Richard  Randall,  with  the  high  courage  of  inex- 
perience, thought  that  with  the  aforesaid  equipment 
of  health,  courage  and  ability,  plus  the  five  hundred  dol- 
lars and  the  manuscript  of  the  play,  the  task  would 
be  a  comparatively  easy  one. 

For  two  years  he  had  been  learning  that  there  is 
no  royal  road  to  success ;  that  adversity  may  rob  one  of 

77 


78  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

both  health  and  courage,  if  not  of  ability,  and  that  five 
hundred  dollars  is  a  very4  small  sum,  indeed,  with 
which  to  tempt  the  Fates. 

He  was  twenty-four,  when  he  came  to  the  city,  and 
up  to  that  time  he  had  lived  in  his  native  city  of 
Cleveland.  His  father  had  been,  up  to  the  time  of  his 
death,  a  man  who  dreamed  of  literary  success  while 
teaching  history  in  the  public  schools.  Perhaps  the 
dream  interfered  with  his  teaching,  or  the  teaching 
with  his  dream.  In  any  event,  his  "Life  of  Alexander 
the  Great,"  product  of  ten  years  of  study  and  labor, 
was  never  published,  nor  did  he  ever  rise  above  the 
ruck  of  the  other  automatons  who  daily  fought  with 
half  a  hundred  unruly  specimens  of  young  America, 
striving  to  interest  them  in  Charlemagne,  or  the  Wars 
of  the  Roses,  when  their  minds  were  clogged  with 
visions  of  fishing  holes,  or  the  delights  of  base-ball  or 
coasting  down  Jones'  hill. 

Richard,  as  a  result,  grew  up  in  an  atmosphere 
heavily  laden  with  literary  aspirations;  hence  it  is  not 
surprising  that,  even  as  a  boy,  he  dreamed  of  the 
novels  he  would  some  day  write,  or  the  plays  he  would 
some  day  have  produced. 

The  latter  ambition  was  an  offshoot  of  the  former, 
and  came  about  in  this  way:  After  his  graduation 
from  the  public  schools,  including  the  high  school,  he 
managed  to  attach  himself  to  the  staff  of  a  local  news- 
paper at  a  salary  of  eight  dollars  a  week.  Occasion- 
ally, when  shows  came  to  town  that  the  dramatic 
editor,  for  one  reason  or  another,  did  not  care  to  see, 
he  would  give  Randall  the  tickets,  leaving  to  him  the 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  79 

writing  of  the  perfunctory  review  which  the  occasion 
demanded. 

Randall  acquitted  himself  so  well  in  this  occasional 
capacity  that  he  attracted  the  attention  of  the  editor 
of  one  of  the  smaller  afternoon  papers,  and  was  offered 
the  position  of  dramatic  critic,  to  fill  a  vacancy  made 
by  the  resignation  of  the  former  incumbent  of  the  office. 
This  position  he  held  for  over  two  years,  and  not  only 
acquired  considerable  local  reputation  as  a  writer  who 
could  criticize  both  pungently  and  fairly  as  well;  but, 
in  addition,  gained  what  he  supposed  to  be  a  good 
working  knowledge  of  plays  and  their  construction. 

It  was  therefore  inevitable  that  he  should  himself 
write  a  play ;  in  fact,  he  wrote  several,  before  he  finally 
evolved  what  he  secretly  came  to  consider  the  great 
American  masterpiece. 

No  sooner  had  he  reached  this  exalted  mental  state 
than  he  resigned  his  position,  packed  his  trunk,  drew 
forth  from  the  Hank  his  savings,  and  departed  amidst 
the  hopes  of  his  family,  and  the  pitying  smiles  of  his 
newspaper  friends.  They  were  older,  and,  knowing 
the  "game,"  regarded  him  as  a  lamb  going  forth  to 
the  slaughter.  Bets  even  were  made  in  newspaper 
circles  as  to  "how  long  Dick  Randall  would  last,"  how 
many  months  would  elapse  before  he  returned,  with 
his  tail,  metaphorically  speaking,  between  his  legs. 

The  day  following  his  arrival  in  New  York,  he 
sallied  forth,  armed  with  his  play  manuscript,  and 
several  letters  of  introduction  which  he  had  brought 
with  him  from  home. 

Of  these,  but  one  proved  of  any  material  value,  and 


80  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

that  was  the  one  to  Edmund  Taylor.  The  latter  had 
been  a  classmate  of  Randall's  father,  in  college,  twenty- 
five  years  before,  and,  being  a  keen  judge  of  men,  he 
concluded  that  he  saw  something  in  young  Randall 
that  differentiated  him  from  the  usual  aspirant  for 
literary  honors,  so  he  gave  him  more  of  his  time  than 
he  would  otherwise  have  done,  and  undertook  to  read 
his  play. 

The  result  of  this  reading  confirmed  his  first  impres- 
sions, and,  realizing  that  Randall  was  without  either 
acquaintances  or  experience  in  theatrical  circles,  intro- 
duced him  to  a  firm  of  play-brokers. 

These  wide-awake  gentlemen,  after  also  reading  the 
play,  or  to  be  exact,  having  it  read  by  their  critic, 
undertook  to  bring  it  to  the  attention  of  managers  upon 
the  basis  of  a  commission  of  fifteen  per  cent.  This  left 
Randall  free  to  begin  the  writing  of  another  play, 
which  he  at  .once  did  with  his  customary  energy  and 
enthusiasm. 

Working  away,  day  after  day,  in  his  third-floor  bed- 
room was  not  very  enlivening,  but  the  monotony  was 
varied  by  frequent  visits  to  his  agents,  and  occasional 
dinners  with  Mr.  Taylor. 

Gradually  he  came  to  know  a  few  actors,  and  once 
or  twice  his  head  was  almost  turned  by  an  introduc- 
tion to  a  manager — a  being  in  his  eyes  at  that  time 
almost  supernal. 

And,  then,  the  unexpected  happened.  After  six 
months  of  waiting,  his  agents  succeeded  in  making  a 
contract  with  a  manager  for  the  production  of  his 
play.  Randall  never  forgot  the  ecstasy  with  which  he 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  81 

received  the  news,  nor  the  joy  of  the  moment  when  he 
affixed  his  signature  beneath  the  manager's,  upon  the 
important-looking  document  of  ten  typewritten  pages, 
bound  in  light-blue  paper. 

He  immediately  went  out  and  bought  himself  a 
new  suit  of  clothes,  upon  the  strength  of  his  success, 
for  such  he  deemed  it  to  be. 

Later  he  came  to  find  out  that  the  signing  of  the 
contract  for  the  production  of  a  play  frequently  means 
less  to  a  manager  than  it  does  to  an  author. 

The  contract  was  not  a  bad  one,  for  a  beginner. 
He  received  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars,  in  advance 
royalties,  less  his  agents'  commission  of  fifteen  per 
cent. ;  and  the  production  was  to  be  made  prior  to  the 
first  of  the  following  November.  The  contract  was 
signed  in  June.  He  had  nearly  five  months  to  wait. 

He  spent  the  time  in  completing  his  new  play,  and 
beginning  another.  The  summer  was  very  long  and 
hot.  He  found  his  five  hundred  dollars  and  the  addi- 
tional two  hundred  and  odd  dwindling  away  with 
astonishing  rapidity.  He  reduced  the  cost  of  his  meals, 
cut  down  on  all  possible  expenses,  and  took  to  prepar- 
ing his  breakfast  in  his  room.  If  he  could  but  bridge 
the  gulf  until  November,  he  felt  that  all  his  trials 
would  be  at  an  end. 

He  did  it,  and  in  so  doing  he  began  to  draw  checks 
against  the  first  of  his  assets,  his  health. 

When  September  rolled  around,  and  then  October, 
he  began  to  feel  nervous.  His  calls  upon  his  agents 
became  more  frequent.  They,  busy  with  larger  mat- 
ters, referred  him  politely  to  his  manager.  The  latter 


82  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

was  usually  out,  or  engaged.  Once  Randall  managed 
to  see  him.  It  took  him  some  little  time  to  do  this — 
nearly  an  entire  day,  to  be  exact;  and  then  his  inter- 
view lasted  but  two  minutes.  Mr.  Liebman  remem- 
bered him  with  an  effort,  and  inquired  what  he 
wanted. 

Pandall,  nervous  and  eager,  explained  that  but  three 
weeks  remained  before  the  time  set  for  the  production 
of  the  play. 

The  manager  lit  a  cigar,  and  began  signing  letters. 

"Well,  I  still  got  three  weeks,  ain't  I?"  he  said. 
"Anyway  you're  not  going  to  kick  if  I  run  over  the 
limit,  are  you?  I'm  putting  on  six  shows,  right  now. 
Give  me  time,  can't  you?" 

That  was  the  extent  of  the  interview.  Randall  went 
back  to  the  agents,  and  told  them  the  results.  They 
were  sympathetic,  but  failed  to  see  what  action  they 
could  take  now,  since  Liebman's  contract  still  had 
three  weeks  to  run.  It  was  good  logic.  Randall  waited 
the  three  weeks.  Then  his  agents  told  him  that  they 
had  refused  to  give  Liebman  an  extension  to  January 
first,  unless  he  paid  an  additional  two  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars,  which  he  had  refused  to  do.  They  had 
therefore  taken  the  play  away  from  him. 

Randall  went  home,  looked  at  the  seven  dollars  and 
forty  cents  remaining  to  him,  and  felt  more  downcast 
than  he  had  ever  felt  in  his  life  before.  Checks  were 
being  drawn  against  his  store  of  courage, 'as  well  as 
of  health.  He  paid  them,  and  went  to  see  Mr.  Taylor. 

The  latter  did  not  offer  sympathy.  He  told  Randall 
that  he  believed  in  him,  believed  in  his  future,  and 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  83 

offered  to  lend  him  five  hundred  dollars.  Randall 
accepted,  and  wished  to  assign  Taylor  a  half-interest 
in  the  play,  but  the  latter  refused  it. 

"You  will  pay  me  back,  my  boy,"  he  said.  "I'm 
doing  this  to  help  you.  I  don't  want  to  rob  you.  If 
your  play  is  worth  anything,  and  I  think  it  is,  a  half- 
interest  in  it  is  worth  a  lot  more  than  five  hundred 
dollars." 

Randall  went  back  to  his  room  and  his  work.  In 
six  weeks,  owing  to  the  usual  fall  crop  of  failures,  his 
agents  succeeded  in  again  placing  the  play,  this  time 
for  an  immediate  production.  Again  he  received 
advance  royalties  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars, 
less  agents'  commissions.  He  was  able  to  repay  Mr. 
Taylor  half  of  the  loan,  and  still  have  a  comfortable 
sum  on  hand.  At  last  he  felt  himself  out  of  the 
woods.  Rehearsals  were  to  begin  in  ten  days. 

The  manager  who  had  this  time  taken  the  play 
was  a  minor  producer,  named  Pollock.  He  had  a 
working  arrangement  with  one  of  the  prominent 
managements,  whereby,  in  the  event  of  his  bringing 
out  a  success  on  the  road,  he  could,  by  sacrificing  a 
large  interest  in  his  production,  obtain  a  New  York 
theatre. 

Unfortunately,  he  had  under  contract  a  young 
woman,  in  whose  success  he  was  more  than  ordinarily 
interested,  and  he  had  leased  Randall's  play  to  pro- 
vide her  with  what,  in  theatrical  parlance,  is  termed 
a  "vehicle."  She  was  a  young  woman,  extremely  good 
looking,  but  with  little  else  to  recommend  her,  either 
in  the  way  of  training  or  ability.-  The  leading  role 


84  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

in  Eandall's  plaj  required  an  actress  of  some  individu- 
ality, not  a  doll,  and,  above  all,  one  of  considerable 
emotional  power. 

Randall  did  not  meet  his  leading  woman  until  the 
day  set  for  beginning  rehearsals.  The  members  of 
the  company  gathered  at  a  small  hall  on  Madison 
Avenue,  in  which  the  play  was  to  be  rehearsed. 
Randall  was  introduced  by  Mr.  Pollock.  He  had  never 
met  any  of  the  cast,  although  one  or  two  were  known 
to  him  by  name.  He  proceeded  to  read  the  play  to 
them,  in  a  rather  nervous  and  halting  voice.  Miss 
Carleton,  the  leading  woman,  yawned,  and  looked  out 
of  the  window. 

That  afternoon  Randall  had  a  talk  with  his  agents. 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  this  Carleton  woman," 
he  said.  "Can  she  act  ?" 

They  assured  him  that  there  were  a  number  of  per- 
sons, including  Mr.  Pollock,  who  said  that  she  could. 
They  themselves  had  never  seen  her,  and  hence  could 
not  of  their  own  knowledge  say. 

The  situation  left  Randall  strangely  disquieted.  He 
had  dreamed  of  having  the  part,  over  which  he  had 
so  faithfully  labored — the  part  of  a  wife  who  sacri- 
ficed ambition,  even  honor  itself,  for  the  sake  of  her 
child — played  by  some  noted  actress,  some  woman  of 
proven  ability.  Yet  he  knew  that  he  was  powerless, 
for,  unlike  the  established  dramatists,  he  had  no  clause 
in  his  contract  giving  him  the  right  to  dictate  the 
cast.  He  determined  to  do  the  best  he  could,  delud- 
ing himself  with  the  belief  that  his  play  was  suffi- 
ciently strong  to  overcome  whatever  deficiencies  Miss 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  85 

Carleton  might  possess.  He  had  never  seen  her  act; 
when  he  approached  Pollock  on  the  subject,  the  latter 
reminded  him  of  that. 

"You  don't  suppose  I'm  fool  enough  to  put  three  or 
four  thousand  dollars  into  this  thing  just  to  lose  it, 
do  you  ?"  he  demanded,  rather  brusquely.  Randall 
had  yet  to  learn  that  producers  who  do  exactly  that 
thing  are  by  no  means  uncommon. 

The  rehearsals  dragged  through  three  and  a  half 
weeks, -during  which  time  Randall  worked  harder  than 
he  had  ever  worked  in  his  life.  Miss  Carleton,  being 
accustomed  to  sleep  until  noon,  refused  to  rehearse 
before  two  o'clock.  The  rehearsals  continued  until 
midnight,  or  later,  with  an  interval  for  dinner  from 
six  to  eight.,  Randall  generally  got  to  bed  about  one 
in  the  morning,  thoroughly  tired  out. 

At  ten  the  next  morning,  accompanied  by  the  stage- 
director,  he  would  sally  forth  to  buy  "props."  There 
were  four  acts  in  the  play  and  three  "sets,"  and  hun- 
dreds of  articles,  from  rugs  to  bric-a-brac,  from  artifi- 
cial flowers  to  tea-cups,  had  to  be  purchased,  or  other- 
wise arranged  for.  Pollock  was  not  niggardly  about 
the  larger  matters.  He  even  permitted  Randall  to 
pay  thirty-five  dollars  for  a  mahogany  desk,  which 
was  "going  some,"  as  the  stage-director  expressed  it, 
for  him,  but  in  small  matters  he  was  adamant. 

"A  dollar  a  piece  for  tea-cups  ?  Ridiculous !  Get 
'em  at  the  five  and  ten-cent  store." 

Randall  tried  to  point  out  that  in  the  home  of  per- 
sons of  wealth,  ten-cent  cups  were  not  used  for  after- 
noon tea. 


86  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

Pollock  grunted. 

"Can't  tell  the  difference  from  the  front,"  was  his 
only  comment. 

By  dint  of  almost  acrobatic  exertions,  Randall  man- 
aged to  get  together  furniture  and  other  properties 
not  altogether  impossible,  and  the  scenery,  he  found 
by  going  to  the  studio,  was  at  least  presentable.  The 
scenic  artist  confided  to  him  that  Pollock  was  "going 
the  limit,"  because  Miss  Carleton  had  him  "buffaloed." 

The  worst  of  Randall's  struggles,  however,  were  with 
the  cast,  and  especially  with  Miss  Carleton.  She  knew 
no  more  about  acting  than  a  child — her  forte  was  to 
look  pretty,  and  smile  an  idiotic  smile  which  she 
imagined  to  be  an  evidence  of  the  aristocratic  breed- 
ing which  the  part  demanded.  Line  after  line  Randall 
was  forced  to  cut  out,  simply  because,  in  her  mouth, 
it  sounded  absurd — impossible.  Scene  after  scene  was 
changed,  rewritten,  and  again  rewritten,  to  suit,  in 
some  measure,  her  microscopic  abilities.  It  was  like 
fitting  a  Brobdignagian  coat  to  a  midget.  Randall  wept 
inwardly,  but  he  was  new  to  the  game,  and  hoped  that 
everything  might  still  turn  out  well.  After  a  time, 
when  he  had  heard  the  various  acts  rehearsed  so  often 
that  he  knew  them  by  heart,  he  reached  a  point  where 
he  could  tell  nothing  whatever  about  the  play.  His 
perspective  had  become  confused.  Sometimes  it  seemed 
to  him  splendid.  At  others,  he  groaned  and  turned 
away,  convinced  that  it  was  hopeless. 

In  one  of  the  acts  a  child,  a  little  girl  of  ten, 
appeared  in  a  tender  and  pathetic  scene.  They  had 
a  good  deal  of  difficulty  with  this  part.  Randall  pro- 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  87 

tested  so  strenuously  against  the  first  candidate,  a  pert 
miss  who  had  been  doing  a  turn  in  vaudeville,  that 
the  matter  was  finally  brought  up  to  Pollock.  Randall 
explained  his  objections.  Pollock  spat  ten  feet  across 
the  room,  and,  having  hit  the  cuspidor  at  which  he 
had  aimed,  turned  with  a  pleased  smile. 

"You  don't  know  that  kid,"  he  said.  "I  saw  her 
at  Proctor's  last  year.  She's  a  swell  little  actress,  and 
the  best  buck-and-wing  dancer  in  town.  Why  don't 
you  write  in  a  little  specialty  for  her,  in  that  act? 
It  would  bring  down  the  house." 

Randall  thought  it  very  likely  would,  but  managed 
at  length  to  make  Pollock  see  that  a  sweet  and  tender 
little  child,  after  saying  good-by  to  her  sick  father, 
would  hardly  burst  forth  into  a  ragtime  song,  or  a 
buck-and-wing  dance.  He  returned  home  staggered  by 
the  knowledge  that  such  men  really  undertook  to  pro- 
duce plays,  and,  in  the  parlance  of  the  street,  "get- 
away with  it." 

At  last,  the  dreary  and  nerve-racking  business  was 
over,  and  Randall  learned  that  the  play  would  open 
in  Buffalo  the  following  week.  He  regretted  this, 
principally  because  of  the  expense  the  trip  would 
involve,  but  he  was  in  the  fight  now,  and  it  was  neces- 
sary to  make  the  best  of  it. 

The  opening  night  went  far  better  than  Randall  had 
dared  to  hope.  The  audience  apparently  liked  the 
play  exceedingly.  Pollock  was  busy  entertaining  the 
local  critics.  The  next  day's  notices  were  excellent. 
Randall  did  not  yet  know  that  they  usually  are,  with 
new  plays,  out  of  town.  He  felt  delighted,  and  sent 


88  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

a  wire  to  Mr.  Taylor,  telling  him  that  the  play  was 
a  "go." 

A  week  in  Albany  followed  the  one  in  Buffalo. 
Certain  representatives  of  producing  interests  came  up 
from  New  York  to  see  the  show.  There  was  dicker- 
ing, arguing.  A  New  York  opening  was  arranged. 
Everyone  was  in  high  glee.  Pollock  even  bought 
Randall  a  drink,  and  wanted  to  know  if  he  had  any 
other  plays  to  sell. 

The  New  York  production  was  an  utter  failure,  as 
it  deserved  to  be.  Miss  Carleton  ruined  the  play-  The 
metropolitan  critics  do  not  always  know  good  acting 
when  they  see  it,  but  they  do  know  bad  acting,  and 
as  Pollock  was  a  manager  of  no  particular  note,  no 
wizard  of  the  stage,  and  Randall  was  a  new  and  quite 
unknown  author,  they  seized  upon  the  play  with  shouts 
of  glee  and  tore  it  to  shreds.  Their  reviews  were 
memorable,  almost  historic.  The  public  laughed,  and 
stayed  away. 

Randall  retired  once  more  to  his  room.  The  two 
weeks  out  of  town  had  made  a  big  hole  in  his  slender 
store  of  money.  He  had  spent  optimistically,  believing 
he  would  win  success.  Mr.  Taylor  was  regretful,  but 
prophesied  a  brilliant  future. 

"Every  young  playwright  has  to  go  through  this 
sort  of  thing,"  he  said. 

Randall  wondered  why,  but  set  his  teeth,  and  went 
back  to  his  work.  The  checks  against  his  health,  his 
nervous  system,  his  courage  were  heavy,  this  time,  but 
he  met  them  with  the  resources  of  youth. 


A  LOST  PAEADISE.  89 

During  the  spring,  Kandall's  agents  almost  suc- 
ceeded in  selling  his  second  play  "The  Winner,"  half- 
a-dozen  times.  Each  time,  after  it  had  been  read  and 
liked,  after  frequent  interviews  with  actors,  managers, 
or  "near"  managers,  the  negotiations,  for  one  reason 
or  another,  fell  through.  One  producer,  a  prominent 
one,  kept  the  play  for  over  five  months,  agreeing  time 
after  time  to  enter  into  a  contract,  but  always,  at  the 
last  moment,  offering  some  excuse  for  his  failure  to 
do  so.  Randall  dragged  through  the  long,  tiresome 
summer,  rewriting,  changing,  working  out  new  plots, 
always  with  success  just  ahead,  yet  never  reaching  it. 
Sometimes  he  reminded  himself  of  the  donkey,  with  the 
wisp  of  hay  tied  to  its  nose,  which  it  followed  up  hill 
and  down  dale,  but  never  was  able  to  grasp. 

During  this  time,  Mr.  Taylor  quietly  made  him 
advances  of  money,  and  still  predicted  success. 

"It's  a  long  lane,  my  boy,"  he  would  say,  "but  it 
will  turn."  He  had  no  children  of  his  own,  and  had 
come  to  be  very  fond  of  his  protege,  as  he  called 
Randall 

When,  therefore,  during  the  second  winter,  "The 
Winner"  was  taken  by  a  prominent  management, 
Randall's  hopes  once  more  rose.  This  time  the 
advance  royalties  were  five  hundred  dollars,  and 
Randall's  agents  predicted  that  within  a  twelve-month 
he  would  be  making  twenty  thousand  a  year.  He  was 
glad  of  this  praise.  It  justified  him,  in  his  own  eyes, 
for  having  borrowed  the  money  from  Mr.  Taylor.  At 
times,  he  thought  that  it  might  have  been  better,  had 
he  secured  a  position,  and  abandoned  the  fight,  but 


90  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

his  courage  still  showed  a  credit  balance — his  faith 
in  himself  and  his  work  still  persisted. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  he  met  Inez  Gordon. 
She  had  been  at  the  office  of  his  agents,  when  he  called 
there  one  day,  and  they  had  been  introduced.  She 
came  looking  for  a  one-act  play,  having  some  idea 
of  going  into  vaudeville.  It  was  just  after  the  closing 
of  a  play  in  which  she  had  been  appearing.  Randall's 
agent  laughingly  introduced  him  as  a  rising  young 
playwright  who  might  do  a  play  for  her  sometime.  The 
girl,  attracted  by  his  personality,  had  given  him  her 
address,  and  suggested  that  he  call. 

This  he  did,  some  days  later,  more  to  pass  away  a 
dull  evening  than  with  the  thought  of  writing  any- 
thing for  her.  The  result  had  been  one  of  those  rapidly 
formed  attachments  which  are  so  characteristic  of 
theatrical  life.  In  a  week,  these  two  young  persons, 
both  struggling  against  heavy  odds  for  success,  had 
told  each  other  their  troubles,  and  were  calling  each 
other  by  their  first  names. 

In  another  week,  they  were  dining  together  at  inex- 
pensive table-d'-hotes,.  and  talking  of  the  future,  as 
though  they  fully  expected  to  share  it.  Randall  per- 
haps more  than  the  girl  needed  sympathetic  and  under- 
standing companionship;  the  sort  of  companionship, 
indeed,  that  a  man  gets  only  from  a  woman — usually 
only  from  one  who  is  in  love  with  -him. 

There  never  was  any  formal  declaration  of  their  feel- 
ings for  each  other.  Randall  spoke  to  Inez  of  his  love 
for  her  as  though  it  had  always  existed — a  part  of 
his  life.  Inez  did  not  speak  very  much  of  her  love 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  91 

for  Randall.  She  simply  allowed  him  to  take  it  for 
granted.  She  believed  in  him,  and  waited  for  events 
to  prove  the  correctness  of  her  belief. 

It  was  only  after  the  New  York  opening  of  "The 
Winner"  that  she  began  to  doubt. 


CHAPTEK  VIII. 

BETWEEN  Tuesday  and  Saturday  Randall  dined  with 
Inez  Gordon  twice.  Very  little  was  said  between 
them  concerning  her  dinner  with  Steinfeldt,  the  man- 
ager. The  girl,  doubtless  anticipating  some  questions 
on  Randall's  part,  disposed  of  the  matter  in  a  few 
words. 

"He  offered  me  the  part,"  she  said.  "Seems  to 
.think  I'm  just  the  type  he  wants.  I'm  to  let  him 
know." 

"When,  dear  ?  I  imagine  he  won't  leave  the  matter 
open  indefinitely.  I'd  rather  you  didn't  take  it.  You 
know  that." 

"I  know."  She  mused  over  his  words  for  a  long 
time,  under  pretense  of  listening  to  the  music.  There 
was  a  blur  of  calculation  in  her  eyes,  which  she  masked 
by  turning  them  away  and  looking  at  the  orchestra 
leader.  "Funny  hair,  hasn't  he  ?"  she  observed. 

Randall  glanced  up  suddenly.  "Hair?"  he 
exclaimed.  "Who?" 

Inez  nodded  toward  the  Polish  violinist. 

"Just  the  kind  women  love  to  play  with." 

"Oh,  yes — I  see.  I  was  thinking  about  something 
else." 

"What,  dear?" 

92 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  93 

"Why,  about  you,  and — and  me,  and  our  marriage. 
Inez,  let's  drop  all  this  for  the  summer,  and  go  away 
somewhere,  and  rest.  Up  on  the  Massachusetts  coast 
— say  Cape  Cod.  There  are  lots  of  cheap  places  up 
there.  We  could  have  a  lovely  time  together,  and 
next  fall—" 

She  interrupted  him,  placing  her  hand  on  his  as  it 
rested  on  the  table. 

"Dickie,  dear,"  she  said,  "where  are  we  going  to 
get  the  money  ?" 

"It  won't  take  much.  We  can  easily  do  it  for 
twenty-five  dollars  a  week.  That  would  be  only  three 
hundred  dollars,  for  the  whole  summer.  I'm  sure  to 
get  four  weeks  out  of  the  play  in  town.  Harrison 
would  never  take  it  off,  under  that,  if  only  to  estab- 
lish it  for  stock.  And  then  he'll  surely  send  it  on 
the  road.  Four  weeks  in  town,  at  say  only  three  hun- 
dred a  week  royalty,  will  give  me  twelve  hundred." 

"Don't  forget  you've  already  had  five,  in  advance." 

"I  know.  But  that  leaves  seven.  We'll  just  take 
the  joy  and  sweetness  of  this  summer  together,  and  then 
come  back  to  town  in  the  fall,  ready  for  anything. 
I'm  tired  out.  I  need  it,  and  so  do  you.  Then  there's 
my  other  play — the  one  Slesinger  has.  I  rather  think 
he'll  take  it,  and  that  will  give  me  five  hundred  more. 
I'll  turn  that  over  to  Mr.  Taylor,  of  course." 

"But  suppose  he  doesn't  take  it  ?" 

"Then,  when  we  come  back  in  the  fall,  I'll  take  a 
position.  I  can  easily  get  thirty  dollars  a  week  on 
some  magazine,  and  that  will  be  plenty  for  us  to  live 
on,  until  the_  bigger  success  comes,  I  can  finish  up 


94  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

that  play  for  you,  nights.  Come  along,  dear.  Won't 
you  ?"  He  leaned  over,  urging  her  with  his  eyes,  with 
the  caressing  power  of  his  voice. 

Inez  seemed  unable  to  meet  his  gaze. 

"I  can't  decide  now,  dear.  Suppose  we  wait  until 
the  end  of  the  week.  Then  you'll  know  hetter  how 
things  are  going  with  you.  I've  got  to  act  in  what- 
ever way  will  be  best  for  us  both,  you  know.  Stein- 
feldt  offers  me  a  splendid  salary." 

"How  much?" 

"It  isn't  decided  yet,  but  I  believe  I  can  get  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty." 

Kandall  made  no  reply.  The  power  of  money,  the 
power  to  take  this  girl  away  from  him,  just  now,  when 
he  felt  he  needed  her  so  much,  made  him  a  trifle  bitter, 
yet  he  knew  that  his  failure,  if  indeed  any  failure 
existed,  lay  at  his  own  door.  He  had  had  his  chance. 
He  was  more  romantic  than  Inez,  and  younger,  if  age 
be  measured  by  willingness  to  ignore  the  practical 
side  of  life.  She,  with  the  note  of  calculation  still 
blurring  her  eyes,  decided  that  Randall  was  somewhat 
of  a  dreamer,  and  in  this  she  was  entirely  right. 

"Suppose  we  leave  the  matter  until  Sunday,"  she 
said;  and  they  fell  to  talking  of  other  matters. 

On  Saturday  night  they  again  dined  together.  The 
sixty-cent  table-d'-hote  was  not  greatly  to  Inez's  liking, 
but  it  was  possible  to  average  it  up;  so  to  speak,  with 
the  dinner  she  had  had  the  night  before,  with  Stein- 
feldt,  which  had  cost  twelve  dollars.  Randall  did  not 
know  of  this  dinner,  and  she  saw  no  reason  to  tell 
him  of  it.  Mr.  Steinfeldt  was  inclined  to  be  rather 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  95 

persistent  in  his  efforts  to  secure  her  services.  She  was 
quite  sophisticated  enough  to  realize  that  a  deeper 
motive  lay  behind  his  persistence,  but  the  woman  in 
her  responded  to  the  flattery  of  his  attentions.  A  con- 
tinual process  of  calculation  was  going  on,  behind  the 
mask  of  her  inscrutable  eves. 

"Well,  Dick,"  she  said,  as  they  sat  down  at  their 
accustomed  table,  "how  was  the  matinee  ?" 

"Excellent;  the  best  house,  in  fact,  that  we've  had 
yet.  We  ought  to  do  even  better,  to-night." 

She  seemed  a  bit  surprised. 

"I'm  so  glad!"  she  said.  "Things  may  turn  out 
well,  after  all." 

"I  believe  they  will."  He  was  all  enthusiasm  to- 
night. "And  we  can  have  our  European  trip  after  all." 

"Dear  boy!"  Her  eyes  took  on  a  sudden  tenderness. 
"I  do  hope  everything  will  be  as  you  expect.  You've 
been  so  brave!  What  are  the  receipts,  so  far  this 
week?" 

"I  don't  know  yet.  I'll  get  them,  after  they  count 
up  to-night.  Won't  you  come  along  to  the  theatre 
with  me  ?" 

"I  can't,  dear.  I'm  going  to  the  Winter  Garden." 
She  exhibited  a  seat-check.  "Mr.  Steinfeldt  gave  me 
a  ticket." 

"Oh!"  He  seemed  a  trifle  disappointed.  "Then 
we  might  meet,  afterward,  and  have  a  bit  of  supper." 

"No,  I  don't  think  we'd  better,  dear.  You'll  want 
to  be  with  Harrison,  and  the  others,  after  the  show. 
Come  to-morrow,  at  eleven,  and  we'll  go  for  a  walk  in 
the  Park,  and  decide  about  everything.  Shall  we  ?" 


96  A  LOST  PAKADISE. 

He  smothered  his  disappointment. 

"I'd  have  liked  it — to  have  been  with  you — to-night, 
but—" 

"And  then,  dear,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I've  a  sort 
of  a  headache,  and  I  want  to  turn  in  early." 

The  interjection  of  any  question  involving  her  health 
or  her  comfort  swept  away  all  personal  considera- 
tions. 

"You  ought  to,  dear,"  he  said.  "I'm  rather  selfish, 
I  guess.  You've  been  under  a  big  strain  this  week. 
Get  a  good  night's  rest,  and  to-morrow  I'm  going  to 
make  you  agree  to  marry  me,  and  leave  this  town  for 
a  while.  We  both  need  the  country.  You  have  no 
idea  how  beautiful  it  is  in  the  woods,  now.  I  went 
for  a  run  up  through  Westchester,  yesterday,  in  Mr. 
Taylor's  car.  The  dogwood  is  just  coming  into  bloom, 
and  the  dandelions  in  the  grass  looked  like  millions  of 
golden  stars.  I  couldn't  help  wishing  that  you  had 
been  with  me.  I've  longed,  all  winter,  to  be  out  in  the 
country,  with  you.  I've  wanted  to  walk  through  the 
woods,  and  look  for  arbutus,  and  violets,  and  lunch  at 
some  little  farm-house,  and  forget  that  such  a  place 
as  New  York  ever  existed." 

"But,  Dick,  I  don't  want  to  forget  New  York.  I 
love  it." 

"So  do  I,  at  times  j  but  there  are  other  times  when 
I  feel  I'd  give  my  soul,  almost,  to'  get  away  from  the 
bricks,  and  the  cement,  and  the  eternal  smell  of  gaso- 
line." 

"You're  a  poet,  Dickie,"  she  laughed.  "You'd  prob- 
ably find,  when  you  got  out  in  the  country,  that  it 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  97 

was  hot,  and  dusty,  or  it  would  probably  rain,  or 
the  meal  at  the  little  farm-house  wouldn't  be  fit 
to  eat." 

"Nonsense!  That  just  proves  that  you  need  to  get 
'away.  You've  lost  your  sense  of  proportion." 

"Well,  maybe  I  have,  dear.  But  when  I  go  into  the 
country,  I  prefer  to  go  in  a  six-cylinder  touring  car,  and 
stop  at  a  good  road-house  for  lunch,  where  they  know 
how  to  cook.  I  suppose  you'll  think  that  gross  mater- 
ialism, but  it  isn't.  It's  just  common-sense." 

Randall  did  not  pursue  the  subject.  Inez  sometimes 
disappointed  him  terribly,  but  he  believed  that  she  spoke 
as  she  did  only  because  she  had  seen  things  from  a 
wrong  angle.  He  felt  quite  sure  that,  could  she  once  get 
away  from  New  York,  she  would  enjoy  the  country 
quite  as  much  as  he  did.  His  love  for  her  made  him 
invest  her  with  a  variety  of  ideal  attributes  that  she  by 
no  means  possessed.  Love  furnishes  us  all  with  magic 
spectacles,  through  which  the  objects  of  our  adoration 
appear,  not  as  they  really  are,  but  as  we  wish  them  to 
be. 

The  orchestra  had  just  begun  to  play  a  popular  dance 
song.  Inez's  lithe  body  was  swaying  in  unconscious 
rhythm  to  the  music. 

"That's  the  'Whistling  Tango,'  "  she  said.  "One  of 
Peters'.  Don't  you  just  love  it  ?" 

Randall  laughed. 

"Lot's  of  go  to  it,  isn't  there  ?  I  met  Peters  the  other 
night.  He  told  me  he  is  going  to  have  a  couple  of  songs 
in  the  summer  review." 

"So  I  hear.     He's  a  wizard,  when  it  comes  to  rag- 


98  A  LOST  PAEADISE. 

time.  Who  could  help  wanting  to  dance  to  a  tune  like 
that?" 

"He  said  he  saw  you  dining  with  Steinfeldt  at  the 
Knickerbocker,  Tuesday  evening." 

She  stopped  her  swaying,  and  her  eyes  met  his  with 
sudden  apprehension. 

"Certainly,"  she  said.    "I  told  you  I  was  going." 

"I  know.  It  wasn't  that.  He — oh,  well — it  wasn't 
anything." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Dick  ?  I  insist  upon  knowing. 
What  did  he  say  ?" 

"He  said  that  Steinfeldt  was  crazy  about  you." 

She  laughed,  and  instinctively  straightened  her  hat. 

"What  rot,  just  because  he  asked  me  to  dinner! 
Steinfeldt  dines  with  hundreds  of  women.  Surely, 
you're  not  going  to  be  jealous  of  him!  Come.  Get  your 
check.  I  don't  want  to  be  late." 

They  walked  over  to  the  subway  at  Astor  Place,  and 
at  Times  Square  he  left  her. 

"I'll  see  you  at  eleven  to-morrow,  dear,"  he  said, 
pressing  her  arm  lovingly.  "And  don't  forget  what  I'm 
going  to  do.  Monday,  the  license,  and  after  that — just 
you  and  me  against  the  world." 

When  Randall  reached  the  theatre,  he  stopped  for 
a  moment  at  the  box-office. 

"How  was  the  sale,  to-night  ?"  he  asked. 

The  box-office  man  shook  his  head. 

"Eotten,"  he  said,  and  gazed  gloomily  at  the  ticket 
rack. 

His  manner  did  not  invite  further  conversation.  Ran- 
dall stepped  inside,  and  once  more  listened  to  the  famil- 


'A  LOST  PAEADISE.  99 

iar  lines  of  the  play.  There  was  a  certain  listlessness, 
an  air  of  depression,  about  the  members  of  the  company, 
that  impressed  him  unpleasantly.  The  house  was  but 
half-filled — and  this  was  Saturday  night.  All  his  fore- 
bodings rushed  back  with  redoubled  force.  He  could 
scarcely  wait  until  the  curtain  fell  on  the  last  act. 

Harrison,  whom  he  had  not  seen  throughout  the  even- 
ing, stood  in  the  box-office  as  he  went  out,  smoking  his 
inevitable  cigar.  Randall  went  up  to  him. 

"How  was  the  week,  Mr.  Harrison  ?"  he  asked.  He 
hoped  that,  even  with  the  fairly  poor  houses,  it  might 
not  have  been  a  losing  one.  Just  how  much  "paper"  the 
house  had  contained  each  night  he  did  not  of  course 
know. 

Harrison,  without  replying,  took  up  a  slip  of  paper 
and  handed  it  to  him.  Randall  read  it  with  horrified 
eyes.  The  total  business  for  the  week  had  been  two 
thousand  two  hundred  dollars.  It  should  have  been  at 
least  eight  thousand.  Mentally  he  figured  his  royalties 
— five  per  cent,  of  two  thousand  two  hundred  was  one 
hundred  and  ten.  With  his  agents'  commissions  off,  it 
would  be  less  than  a  hundred  dollars.  And  he  had -al- 
ready been  advanced  five  hundred !  At  this  rate,  even 
though  the  play  continued  for  five  weeks,  there  would 
be  nothing  whatever  due  him.  His  hand  trembled  as 
he  returned  the  paper  to  Harrison. 

"I'm  sorry,  Mr.  Harrison,"  he  said.  "But  perhaps  in 
a  couple  of  weeks  business  may  pick  up." 

Harrison  revolved  His  cigar  about,  then  took  it  from 
his  mouth. 

"The  show  hasn't  got  a  chance/'  he  said,  slowly. 


100  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

"I'm  going  to  close  it  next  Saturday  night.     The  notice 
is  already  posted." 

Randall  caught  his  breath,  and  clutched  the  side  of 
the  door  for  support. 

"Next  Saturday  night  ?"  he  gasped,  mechanically. 

"Yes,"  Harrison  nodded. 

"And  you're  not  going  to  try  it  on  the  road  ?" 

""No  use.  These  out-of-town  audiences  are  wiser  than 
they  used  to  be.  They  read  the  New  York  papers,  and 
the  criticisms  in  the  magazines.  If  I'd  put  this  show 
out,  after  only  two  weeks  in  town,  with  the  notices  it 
got,  it  would  lose  me  a  thousand  a  week — maybe  two. 
I'm  sorry,  but  the  only  place  for  it  now  is  the  store- 
house." 

Randall  stood  still  for  a  long  time,  gazing  at  the  ticket 
rack  opposite  him.  All  the  red  and  yellow  and  green 
bits  of  pasteboard  danced  before  his  eyes  in  kaleido- 
scopic patterns,  each  of  which  ultimately  resolved  itself 
into  the  hideous  word  "failure."  The  sounds  of  the 
street  swept  into  the  hot  little  box-office — the  carriage 
calls,  the  newsboys'  cries,  the  raucous  blasts  of  auto- 
mobile horns,  and  each  seemed  to  repeat  but  the  single 
word,  "failure." 

Harrison  pulled  his  slouch  hat  over  his  eyes,  said 
good-night  to  the  men  in  the  office,  and  turned  to  the 
lobby. 

"Come  and  get  a  drink,  my  boy,"  he  said.  "And 
don't  lose  your  nerve.  I've  dropped  over  seven  thou- 
sand, on  this  thing,  and  I'm  not  losing  any  sleep. 
You've  only  lost  a  few  months'  time,  and  gained  a  lot 
of  valuable  experience.  Brace  up." 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  101 

Seven  thousand  dollars — and  the  man  was  reputed 
to  be  making  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  a  year! 
And  he,  Randall,  had  lost  only  a  few  months'  time.  He 
thought  of  the  ten  or  twelve  dollars  he  had  in  his  pocket, 
which  represented  his  sole  remaining  capital,  of  the  two 
thousand  dollars  he  owed  Taylor,  of  the  blow  to  his 
reputation  as  a  writer,  of  his  shattered  nerves,  his 
broken  hopes,  and  of  Inez — and  laughed. 

"You're  right,  Mr.  Harrison,"  he  said.  "Better 
luck  next  time.  I'm  only  sorry,  for  your  sake,  that 
things  didn't  turn  out  better,  and  I  thank  you  for  giving 
me  a  chance." 

"That's  all  right,  my  boy.  Don't  let  this  thing  break 
you  up.  I  don't  judge  a  man  by  one  failure — or  two. 
If  you'd  come  to  me  with  a  play  that  I  liked  to-morrow, 
I'd  put  it  on.  What'll  you  have  ?" 

Randall  poured  out  a  large  drink  of  whiskey.  He 
felt  reckless,  almost  like  laughing  at  the  blow  Fate  had 
dealt  him.  Yet  in  his  heart  hope  still  remained,  bidding 
him  keep  up  the  fight.  There  was  still  the  play  in 
Slesinger's  hands.  And  there  was  Inez,  and  her  love. 
He  would  ask  her  to  marry  him,  the  next  day,  take  the 
position  about  which  he  had  spoken  to  Mr.  Taylor,  and 
win  success  in  spite  of  all  opposition. 

The  drink  improved  his  spirits.  He  ordered  another, 
and  when  Harrison  bade  him  good-night,  and  climbed 
into  his  motor  car,  he  felt  almost  cheerful  again. 

"I  won't  forget  what  you  said  about  another  play, 
Mr.  Harrison,"  he  called,  as  the  latter  drove  off.  Even 
the  fact  that  Harrison  made  no  reply  did  not  seem  to 
him  important. 


102  A  LOST  PAEADISE. 

Suddenly  he  was  seized  with  the  idea  of  going  to  see 
Inez.  He  would  make  her  come  out  with  him,  and  get 
some  supper.  He  felt  too  nervous,  too  upset,  to  go  to  his 
room,  alone.  Companionship,  of  some  sort,  he  must 
have,  for  an  hour  or  two  at  least.  And,  loving  her  as  he 
did,  he  felt  a  compelling  desire  to  see  her,  to  talk  to  her, 
to  go  to  her  with  his  troubles,  his  bad  news,  as  he  would 
have  gone  to  her  with  good.  He  glanced  at  his  watch. 
It  was  nearly  twelve  o'clock.  In  a  few  moments  he  had 
boarded  a  Broadway  car. 

Randall  had  called  upon  the  girl  so  often,  in  her  little 
studio  apartment,  that  he  had  no  hesitation  in  doing  so 
now,  even  at  this  late  hour.  The  building  was  tenanted 
chiefly  by  professional  people,  whose  comings  and  goings 
were  equally  a  matter  of  indifference  to  the  sleepy-eyed 
negro  boy  who  operated  the  elevator  and  the  telephone 
switchboard.  Randall  entered,  nodded  to  the  boy,  who 
knew  him  well,  and  stepped  into  the  elevator. 

At  the  door  of  Inez's  apartment  he  hesitated  a  mo- 
ment, fancying  that  he  heard  voices  within,  then  pressed 
the  button. 

An  appreciable  interval  ensued  before  Inez  opened 
the  dodr.  Her  face  was  flushed,  surprised,  and  she, 
clutched  her  kimono  closely  about  her  breast. 

"Good  Lord,  Dick !"  she  gasped.  "What  do  you  want  ?" 

Randall  was  a  trifle  taken  aback.  She  had  often  re- 
ceived him,  at  this  hour — in  fact,  they  had  sometimes, 
after  rehearsals  and  supper,  sat  in  the  little  parlor  and 
talked  for  half  the  night. 

"I  have  something  important  to  tell  you,  Inez/'  he 
said,  very  gravely. 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  103 

"But — you — you  can't  come  in — now." 

"Why  not  ?"  His  face  flamed  with  momentary 
chagrin.  "Surely,  Inez,  you  can  see  me  for  a  few  mo- 
ments. Something  has  happened — " 

She  glanced  swiftly  back  over  her  shoulder,  still  hold- 
ing the  door  nearly  closed. 

"But — the  room  is  all  upset,"  she  said. 

"What  do  I  care,  dear  ?  He  took  one  of  her  hands, 
and  pressed  it  lovingly.  "I  have  something  to  tell  you, 
and  I — I  can't  sleep,  until  I  do." 

"Very  well.  Come  in  then.  But  only  for  a  few  mo- 
ments. I'm  frightfully  tired,  and  I  want  to  turn  in." 

"Ten  minutes.  It  won't  take  longer.  I  couldn't  wait 
until  to-morrow."  He  strode  into  the  room. 

Inez  stood  with  her  back  to  the  drawn  curtains  which 
partitioned  off  the  bedroom. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked,  very  low.  "What  has 
happened  ?" 

"It's— it's  about  the  show,"  he  said.  "It  closes  next 
Saturday  night." 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  his.  There  was  an  almost 
pathetic  look  in  them,  as  though  she  had  been  hunted, 
trapped. 

"I  know  it,"  she  replied. 

"You  know  it.    How?" 

"I  heard  it  at  the  Winter  Garden,  to-night.  Harri- 
son's house-manager  was  there." 

He  gazed  at  her  intently,  for  a  moment,  as  she  stood 
against  the  curtains,  her  lithe  form  revealed  by  the 
clinging  kimono.  He  longed  to  sweep  her  into  his  arms. 
A  tremendous  sense  of  loneliness  came  over  him,  a  de- 


104  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

sire  to  drown  the  jarring  bitterness  of  his  thoughts  in 
a  whirlpool  of  emotion;  to  feel — passionately,  deeply, 
and  to  cease  thinking.  He  held  out  his  arms. 

"Inez !"  he  cried.  "You  must  marry  me,  anyway.  I 
love  you  so,  dear!  I  can't  live  without  you — now.  I 
want  you — every  minute.  I  know  things  look  pretty 
bad,  but  I'm  going  to  win  out.  I  will,  if  you  will  help 
me.  Don't  you  see  that,  right  now,  I  need  you  more 
than  I  ever  have  before  ?"  He  took  a  step  toward  her, 
his  eyes  searching  hers  hungrily. 

She  stopped  him  with  a  sudden  gesture,  which  for  a 
moment  puzzled  him.  Her  two  hands  were  at  her 
breast,  and  with  the  one  she  was  drawing  from  .her  finger 
the  ring  he  had  given  her.  In  a  moment  she  had  ex- 
tended it  to  him. 

"Here,  Dick,"  she  said.  "I'm  sorry,  but  it's  all  over. 
I'm  not  going  to  marry  you." 

"Xot  going  to  marry  me  ?"  he  gasped,  scarcely  under- 
standing what  she  said. 

"^"o.  K"ot  to-morrow — not  next  fall — not  at  all.  I've 
thought  it  all  over.  I  don't  believe  I  love  you — the  way 
I  should.  I  don't  believe  it  would  make  either  of  U3 
happy.  Here,  take  your  ring,  and — good-by."  There 
was  no  longer  a  blur  of  calculation  in  her  eyes;  a  glint 
of  determination,  a  depth  of  meaning  and  purpose,  had 
taken  its  place. 

Randall  saw  it,  and  slowly  took  the  ring. 

"Good-by,"  he  said,  quite  mechanically,  and  with  no 
realization  of  having  spoken  at  all.  Then  he  stumbled 
toward  the  door.  As  he  did  so,  he  saw,  lying  on  a  little 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  105 

table,  beside  the  wall,  a  man's  soft  gray  hat,  and  a  pair 
of  gray  gloves. 

For  one  instant,  he  turned  and  looked  at  her.  She 
saw  that  he  had  seen  them.  A  shadow  swept  over  her 
face,  and  her  lips  parted,  as  though  she  intended  to 
speak. 

Then  Randall  began  to  laugh,  a  hideous,  crackling 
laugh,  like  the  rattling  of  dry  bones.  He  tossed  the 
ring  which  he  still  held  in  his  hand,  toward  her,  as 
though  the  touch  of  it  burnt  him. 

"I  guess  I  don't  want  it,  any  more,"  he  said,  and, 
turning,  went  out  into  the  hall. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

EVEET  man  possesses  an  elastic  limit,  beyond  which 
he  cannot  be  tried,  mentally  and  nervously,  without 
dangerously  approaching  the  breaking  point.  Even  the 
stoutest  heart  must,  for  a  time  at  least,  give  way,  when 
Fate  gives  the  wheel  of  the  rack  its  final  turn. 

Richard  Randall  had  not  yet  reached  this  point,  when 
he  left  Inez  Gordon's  studio,  and  started  aimlessly 
down-town,  but  he  was  perilously  near  it.  The  com- 
bined shocks  of  the  collapse  of  his  play,  and  the  du- 
plicity— he  felt  it  was  that — of  the  woman  he  loved, 
had  made  such  overwhelmingly  heavy  drafts  against  his 
small  remaining  stock  of  courage  and  health,  that  very 
little  more  was  needed  to  reduce  him  to  utter  bank- 
ruptcy. 

He  staggered  toward  Broadway,  dazed  and  almost 
hopeless.  The  lights  of  a  saloon  on  the  corner  attracted 
him.  He  went  in  and  gulped  down  a  drink  of  raw 
whiskey.  In  his  present  state,  it  affected  him  no  more 
than  so  much  water.  Then,  unable  to  remain  long  in 
any  one  place,  he  boarded  a  car  and  proceeded  down- 
town. 

The  flaming  electric  lights,  the  garish  night  life  of 
Times  Square,  mocked  him.  He  crouched  in  a  corner  of 
the  car,  filled  with  the  sublimity  of  egotism  which  causes 
a  man  to  think  that  the  whole  world  is  against  him,  that 

106 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  107 

every  man's  hand  is  raised  to  strike.  He  wanted  to  get 
away,  to  put  limitless  distances  between  himself  and 
this  grinning,  soulless  place,  that  had  stripped  him  of 
courage,  of  health,  of  hope  and  of  love.  A  sense  of  self- 
pity  enveloped  him.  At  times  it  seemed  almost  as 
though  the  whole  city  had  combined  in  a  monster  con- 
spiracy to  ruin  him.  The  very  lamps  of  the  countless 
automobiles  seemed  to  flash  derisively  as  they  passed, 
the  electric  signs  winked  at  each  other,  and  laughed,  the 
men  and  women  crowding  in  and  out  of  the  restaurants 
pointed  mocking  fingers  at  him,  the  other  passengers 
in  the  car  raised  their  eyebrows,  and  smiled.  The  ab- 
surdity of  his  mental  attitude  did  not  strike  him — even 
the  balm  of  a  sense  of  humor  is  denied  one  at  times. 

He  left  the  car  at  Twentieth  Street,  and  walked 
toward  Irving  Place.  In  a  few  moments,  he  had 
reached  his  room.  He  went  in,  dashed  his  hat  upon  the 
bed,  and  sank  into  a  chair. 

A  letter  lying  on  the  table  caught  his  eye.  It  had 
evidently  come  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  had  been 
brought  to  his  room  by  the  maid.  He  picked  it  up  with- 
out interest.  In  the  corner  of  the  envelope  he  saw  the 
familiar  name  of  his  play  brokers.  He  tore  it  open, 
and  saw  that  it  contained  a  note,  transmitting  an  enclos- 
ure. The  enclosure  was  a  letter  from  Slesinger,  return- 
ing his  play  to  the  agents,  and  saying  that  he  had  read 
it,  and  found  it  unsuited  to  his  purpose. 

The  last  straw  had  been  laid  upon  the  camel's  back, 
the  last  turn  been  given  to  the  screw  by  the  Fates. 
Randall  crushed  the  letter  in  his  hand,  and  sat  quite 
still  for  over  half  an  hour,  his  eyes  closed.  Then  he  rose. 


108  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

A  sudden  energy  of  determination  possessed  him. 
He  had  quite  evidently  made  up  his  mind  to  some 
immediate  and  definite  course  of  action.  He  tossed 
the  letter  into  the  waste-basket,  and  slowly  removed  the 
contents  of  his  pockets  and  placed  them  in  a  pile  on 
the  table.  There  was  some  eleven  dollars  and  twenty 
cents  in  money,  a  knife,  a  pencil,  a  small  bunch  of 
keys,  and  a  silver  watch  with  a  leather  guard. 

Having  done  this,  he  took  off  his  clothes,  opened 
the  trunk  that  stood  along  the  wall  at  one  side  of  the 
room, .  and,  taking  out  an  old  suit  and  a  blue  flannel 
shirt,  proceeded  to  put  them  on.  His  low  black  shoes 
he  exchanged  for  a  pair  of  heavy  and  much  worn 
tan  boots.  Then  he  proceeded  to  pack  all  of  his  belong- 
ings into  the  trunk,  closed  and  locked  it,  and  sat  down 
again  at  hi-s  writing-table. 

His  first  act  was  to  take  a  bit  of  paper,  write  upon 
it  Mr.  Taylor's  name  and  address,  and  paste  it  upon 
the  top  of  the  trunk.  Then  he  carefully  selected  five 
one-dollar  bills  from  the  little  pile  of  money  on  the 
table,  and,  placing  them  in  an  envelope,  addressed  it 
to  Mrs.  Baker,  his  landlady.  The  sum  represented 
his  room  rent  for  the  past  week,  and  with  it  he  enclosed 
his  latch-key,  and  a  short  note,  telling  her  that  he  would 
not  need  the  room  further,  and  that  his  trunk  would 
be  sent  for.  Then  he  wrote  a  letter  to  Mr.  Taylor. 

"I  know  you  will  understand,"  it  read,  "when  I 
tell  you  that  I  am  going  away.  You  will  not  think 
this  cowardice  on  my  part,  for  you  have  realized  how 
worn  out  I  am,  how  greatly  in  need  of  rest.  By  the 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  109 

time  this  reaches  you,  you  will  have  heard  of  the  fate 
of  'The  Winner.'  It  seems  a  pity,  but  no  doubt  Har- 
rison is  right. 

"I  am  leaving  my  trunk  here,  with  instructions  to 
have  it  turned  over  to  you.  It  contains  nothing  of 
any  particular  value,  except  the  manuscripts  of  two 
plays.  One  of  these,  the  one  you  know  of,  Slesinger 
has  just  refused.  My  agents  also  have  a  copy.  The 
other  is  a  new  play,  which  I  only  recently  completed. 
I  herewith  turn  them,  together  with  all  interest  in 
'The  Winner'  as  well  as  my  other  play,  over  to  you, 
do  with  any  or  all  of  them  whatever  you  may 
see  fit,  to  secure  to  yourself  the  repayment  of  this 
money. 

"This  is  all  I  have  to  offer  you,  in  return  for  your 
great  and  unvarying  kindness  to  me.  I  hope  that  the 
stock  rights  of  'The  Winner,'  at  least,  may  prove  of 
some  value. 

"Do  not  think  hardly  of  me  for  not  coming  to  say 
good-by.  I  have  received  some  bitter  blows  to-day, 
of  which  you  know  nothing.  They  have  hurt  me  very 
deeply.  My  only  desire  is  to  get  away  from  it  all 
as  quickly  as  possible. 

"I  cannot  tell  you  where  I  am  going,  for  I  do  not 
know,  nor  do  I  know  when  I  shall  come  back,  if, 
indeed,  I  come  back  at  all.  Good-by,  dear  friend. 
You  have  been  very  good  to  me.  I  wish  I  might  have 
proven  more  worthy  of  your  kindness. 
"Faithfully  yours, 

"RICHARD  RANDALL." 


110  A  LOST  PAEADISE. 

Kandall  rose,  looked  about  the  room,  crushed  the 
remaining  six  dollars  into  his  trouser-pockets,  and, 
shutting  off  the  light,  went  out  into  the  hall. 

The  house  was  very  dark  and  silent.  It  was  long 
after  two  o'clock.  With  the  letter  to  Mr.  Taylor  in 
his  hand,  he  noiselessly  descended  the  steps,  and  left 
the  house. 

At  the  corner  of  Madison  Avenue  he  got  a  stamp 
in  the  drug  store,  posted  his  letter,  then  went  over 
to  Broadway  and  took  a  car  up-town. 

He  felt  singularly  hungry,  and,  knowing  nowhere 
to  go  for  food  at  this  hour  of  the  night  except  Jack's, 
he  made  his  way  there  without  delay.  A  curious 
recklessness  possessed  him.  He  counted  his  money, 
and  found  that  there  still  remained  six  dollars  and 
thirteen  cents.  He  took  a  table  in  an  obscure  corner, 
ordered  a  large  steak,  and  a  drink  of  whiskey. 

The  latter  he  drank  at  once,  while  waiting  for  his 
steak  to  be  cooked,  and  supplemented  it  by  another 
before  the  meal  was  brought.  The  steak  tasted  very 
good  to  him,  indeed,  as  did  the  several  mugs  of  ale 
he  drank  with  it.  He  purchased  a  Sunday  paper,  and 
sat  reading  it,  eating  very  slowly  and  deliberately. 

A  strange  quietness  had  come  over  him.  Things 
no  longer  seemed  to  matter  much,  one  way  or  another, 
He  was  no  longer  Eichard  Kandall,  the  playwright, 
who  had  so  bitterly  failed,  but  an  entirely  new  indi- 
vidual, a  man  whose  home  was  the  world,  whose  heart 
was  a  piece  of  stone,  whose  nerves  had  suddenly 
become  steel.  And  all  this  he  had  purchased  at  the 
cost  of  a  little  food  and  drink.  The  Fates,  regarding 


A  LOST  PAEADISE.  Ill 

him  in  his  temporary  state  of  exaltation,  must  have 
laughed. 

He  finished  reading  his  paper  as  the  dawn  rose, 
ghostly  and  pale,  over  the  house-tops.  He  went  out 
into  the  deserted  streets.  It  was  half-past  five  o'clock 
Sunday  morning,  the  most  silent  of  all  the  hours 
in  the  great  city's  week. 

He  began  to  walk,  without  knowing  where  he  was 
going.  Down  to  Forty-second  Street  he  went,  through 
the  park  in  the  rear  of  the  Public  Library,  and  out 
into  Fifth  Avenue.  Everywhere  the  same  death-like 
silence  over  the  sleeping  city,  the  same  ghostly  quality 
of  the  dawn.  For  all  the  evidence  of  life  he  saw  he 
might  have  been  in  a  city  of  the  dead. 

The  blue-gray  light  was  changing  now  to  an  amber 
shot  with  rose,  above  which  presently  flashed  the  first 
bright  rays  of  the  rising  sun.  He  could  see,  down 
the  cross  streets  toward  Long  Island,  the  glowing 
eastern  sky,  and  against  it  the  chimneys  and  buildings 
on  the  opposite  shore,  towering  gaunt  and  black  against 
the  dawn. 

The  sunrise  spoke  of  nature,  of  peace,  of  wide 
stretches  of  sea,  of  the  sweet,  warm  winds  of  the 
tropics.  It  seemed  immeasurably  above  and  beyond 
the  sordid  things  for  which  he  had  so  recently  been 
striving.  He  walked  on  and  on,  past  Thirty-fourth 
Street,  past  Twenty-third,  and  down  to  the  very  end 
of  Fifth  Avenue,  with  its  silent  marble  arch.  The 
Square,  in  its  dress  of  tender  green,  welcomed  him 
with  the  chatter  of  a  thousand  birds.  He  sat  down 


112  'A  LOST  PARADISE. 

upon  one  of  the  benches,  and  drank  in  the  peace  of 
the  morning. 

After  a  time  he  slept.  When  he  awoke,  with  a 
start,  the  sunlight  was  gilding  the  top  of  the  arch, 
and  the  streets  were  no  longer  deserted.  He  glanced 
at  his  watch.  It  was  half-past  eight.  The  stimula- 
tion of  the  night  before  had  worn  off.  The  sleep 
had  failed  to  rest  him;  on  the  contrary,  it  had  but 
accentuated  his  need  of  it.  He  shivered  slightly,  for 
there  was  still  a  chill  in  the  early  spring  air,  and, 
rising,  walked  toward  Fifth  Avenue. 

He  looked  at  the  money  in  his  pocket,  and  found 
that  he  still  had  three  dollars  and  a  half,  and  some 
coppers.  Habit,  and  the  chill  that  his  nap  had  given 
him,  made  him  long  'for  a  cup  of  coffee.  He  made  his 
way  to  a  French  hotel  and  restaurant  on  University 
Place,  at  which  he  had  once  or  twice  dined  with  Mr. 
Taylor. 

The  place  was  just  waking  up.  Scrub  women  were 
cleaning  the  cafe.  In  the  dining-room  a  single  sleepy 
waiter  was  serving  an  equally  sleepy  guest. 

Randall  sat  down,  and  ordered  eggs  and  coffee.  In 
half  an  hour,  he  had  eaten,  and  then  retired  to  the 
cafe,  seating  himself  heavily  at  one  of  the  marble- 
topped  tables.  He  felt  old  and  tired.  The  depres- 
sion of  the  previous  night  again  began  to  creep  into 
his  brain.  How  characteristic  it  was  of  him,  he 
thought,  that,  having  started  out  the  night  before  to 
abandon  New  York  forever,  he  had  got  no  further 
than  University  Place. 

The  cafe  was  quite  empty.    The  single  waiter  looked 


A  LOST  PAEADISE.  113 

at  him  askance,  estimating  him  by  his  worn  suit,  his 
flannel  shirt.  Eandall  cursed  himself  beneath  his 
breath,  and  ordered  more  coffee,  with  brandy. 

With  all  its  evil  consequences,  there  is  this  sovereign 
power  about  drink:  It  deludes  the  senses,  and  pro- 
duces a  false  sense  of  security.  Eandall  had  never 
been  a  drinking  man,  but,  just  now,  drink  seemed  to 
him  his  only  salvation.  The  slow,  insistent  on-coming 
of  the  depression  of  the  night  before  terrified  him. 
He  felt  that  he  must  forget,  else  his  career,  whatever 
it  might  be,  was  likely  to  end  in  the  East  Eiver. 

Once  he  tried  to  argue  himself  into  a  more  reason- 
able state  of  mind.  Even  though  things  had  gone 
badly,  could  he  not  summon  up  enough  courage  to 
face  them?  It  is  likely  that,  had  his  nerves  been  in 
a  normal  state,  he  would  have  done  so;  but  they  were 
not,  and  the  thought  of  Inez  and  her  treatment  of 
him  made  his  soul  shrink.  He  wanted  to  get  away 
from  his  thoughts,  and,  in  desperation,  ordered  more 
brandy.  • 

He  sat  in  the  little  cafe  dully,  stupidly,  until  noon, 
consuming  drink  after  drink.  The  habitues  of  the 
place,  dapper-looking  Frenchmen,  tired-eyed  Ameri- 
cans who  had  not  slept,  came  in  with  their  morning 
.papers.  Eandall  paid  no  attention  to  them.  He 
wanted  to  get  drunk — he  meant  to  get  drunk — and  he 
did. 

By  twelve  o'clock,  the  tables  were  spinning  about 
like  pin-wheels,  and  there  seemed  to  be  innumerable- 
waiters  in  every  corner.    Yet  the  liquor  had  not  stimu- 


114  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

lated  him.  Instead,  he  felt  an  overwhelming  desire 
to  sleep. 

He  staggered  out  to  the  desk,  and  asked,  thickly, 
for  a  room. 

"The  cheapest  you  have,"  he  said.  The  clerk  looked 
at  him,  decided  that,  in  spite  of  his  clothes,  he  was 
a  gentleman,  and  calling  a  bell-boy,  gave  him  a  key. 
Then  he  asked  Eandall  for  a  dollar  and  a  half. 

The  latter  drew  from  his  pocket  a  single  bill,  and 
a  handful  of  change.  After  paying  for  his  room,  he 
found  that  he  still  had  forty  cents.  In  a  spirit  of 
bravado,  he  gave  the  boy  a  quarter,  and,  when  the 
latter  had  left  the  room,  he  pulled  down  the  shades, 
tore  off  his  clothes,  and  crept  into  bed. 

It  was  dark  when  he  awoke,  and  a  dreadful  pain 
bound  his  head,  like  a  circlet  of  steel.  He  reached  for 
his  watch.  It  was  three  o'clock,  but  whether  three 
in  the  afternoon,  or  the  morning,  he  did  not  know. 

He  staggered  to  his  feet,  drank  heavily  from  the 
water-bottle  which  stood  upon  the  wash-stand,  then, 
raising  the  shade,  looked  out  of  the  window.  It  was 
night,  and  in  the  velvet  sky  shone  many  stars. 

He  crept  back  into  bed,  hoping  for  sleep,  but  for 
many  hours  found  none.  The  shade  he  had  left  up, 
and  a  faint  light  stole  in  from  the  night  sky.  For 
what  seemed  to  him  centuries  he  lay,  looking  up  at 
the  wall  paper  on  the  ceiling  of  the  room — a  pattern 
of  flowers,  set  in  a  field  of  stars.  The  minutes  passed 
like  whole  days.  He  wondered  whether  he  could 
endure  it  until  the  dawn  came.  Yet,  after  all,  what 
would  the  dawn  mean,  to  him  ? 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  115 

After  a  long  time,  he  rose,  switched  on  the  light, 
and  went  to  the  little  table  near  the  window.  On  it 
he  found  writing  materials,  and  he  began  to  write.  In 
the  course  of  half  an  hour,  he  had  produced  the  fol- 
lowing : 

"And  so,  for  twice  ten  thousand  years  I  lay 
And  searched  the  pattern  on  my  tomb's  low  roof. 
Poor  futile  flowers,  dull,  and  drab,  and  small, 
That  'neath  my  burning  eyes  did  live,  and  grow 
To  passion  flowers,  red  with  life,  and  love. 
Around  them  spread  a  million  tiny  stars, 
That  fell,  like  tears  from  some  twice-broken  heart, 
To  blot  the  flowers  out,  or  water  them 
With  sweet  compassion's  rain,  and  give  them  peace. 
Anon  the  roof  seemed  coils  of  snakes,  like  whips, 
That  writhed  about  a  cruel  face  of  stone. 
Fate  sneering  at  me  with  white  frozen  lips, 
The  while  she  lashed  in  silence  at  my  heart. 
There  was  no  sleep,  for  sleep  had  been  too  kind 
For  one  so  crucified." 


He  read  the  lines  over,  then  tore  the  sheet  of  paper 
into  bits,  and  flung  it  from  him.  For  some  little 
while  he  thought  of  death,  and  wondered  whether, 
should  he  leap  from  the  window,  the  fall  to  the  yard 
below  would  be  fatal.  Then  he  crept  back  into  bed, 
and  presently  fell  into  an  uneasy  sleep. 

It  was  broad  daylight  when  he  awoke,  burning  with 
thirst.  He  dressed  with  feverish  haste,  and  descended 


116  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

to  the  ground  floor.  Suddenly  he  realized  that  he 
had  no  more  money — but  fifteen  cents  remained  in 
his  pocket.  He  went  out  into  the  streets,  hot  with  the 
morning  sun,  and,  going  to  the  nearest  saloon,  spent 
his  remaining  money  for  a  glass  of  whiskey. 

A  strange  and  terrible  peace  now  possessed  him. 
He  felt  that  he  no  longer  belonged  to  the  world  of 
living  things,  but  was  a  creature  apart,  a  being  of 
another  world,  bound  by  no  tie  to  the  roaring  city 
about  him. 

The  streets  were  filled  with  people.  It  was  noon, 
and  the  denizens  of  the  sweat  shops  were  sallying  forth 
for  their  lunch,  and  a  breath  of  air.  He  looked  at 
them,  and  laughed.  He  had  nothing  in  common  with 
these  pallid  creatures. 

A  desire  for  another  drink  came  over  him,  with  a 
fierce  and  sudden  intensity.  He  had  almost  entered 
a  saloon  when  he  realized  that  he  no  longer  had  any 
money.  Then  he  bethought  himself  of  his  watch,  a 
cheap  silver  affair  that  had  cost  perhaps  fifteen  dol- 
lars. He  decided  to  pawn  it. 

He  had  reached  Sixth  Avenue  by  this  time,  and, 
soon,  the  familiar  sign  of  the  three  golden  balls  met 
his  sodden  gaze.  He  went  in,  threw  the  watch  upon 
the  counter,  and  asked  how  much  he  could  borrow 
upon  it. 

The  man  behind  the  counter  looked  at  the  watch 
carelessly. 

"Two  dollars,"  he  grunted. 

"Give  it  to  me."  Kandall  took  the  two  dollars  and 
the  ticket.  The  latter  he  tore  up,  and  flung  into  the 


I 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  117 

gutter.  With  the  former,  he  at  once  purchased  another 
drink. 

Then  he  began  to  walk — down  Sixth  Avenue  for 
a  space,  then  over  to  Broadway,  and  then,  turning  by 
some  instinct  toward  the  east,  he  at  last  found  himself 
on  South  Street,  lined  with  its  countless  ships. 

He  paused  here  a  long  time,  having  first  obtained 
another  drink,  and  a  plate  of  bean  soup  from  the 
free-lunch  counter  of  a  dingy  water-front  saloon.  The 
ships  attracted  him.  Coming  as  he  did  from  the 
middle  West,  he  knew  little  of  the  sea,  but  there  was 
a  touch  of  romance,  a  flavor  of  far-off  climes,  about 
their  towering  masts,  their  black  and  smoke-begrimed 
hulls,  which  enfolded  him  in  a  spirit  of  adventure, 
of  mystery. 

Even  the  smell  of  the  docks  pleased  him,  with  its 
combination  of  paint,  tar,  guano,  sugar,  and  bilge- 
water.  A  cool,  fresh  breeze  was  blowing  from  the 
south-east,  carrying  with  it  the  salt  smell  of  the  sea. 
He  stood  for  a  long  time  watching  a  rusty  tramp 
steamer,  which,  with  the  assistance  of  two  fussing 
tugs,  was  being  warped  out  into  the  channel.  Black 
clouds  of  smoke  were  pouring  from  her  funnels.  He 
wondered  whither  she  was  bound,  and  wished  himself 
aboard. 

After  a  while,  he  tired  of  the  inaction  of  standing 
about  the  docks.  The  sun  was  becoming  unpleasantly 
hot,  and  the  liquor  he  had  drunk  made  him  very  dizzy. 
He  wandered  across  the  street,  and  into  the  bar-room 
of  a  sailor's  hotel.  Back  of  the  bar,  a  dim,  cool  room 
invited.  He  snatched  up  a  bit  of  rye  bread  and  cheese, 


118  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

ordered  a  drink  of  beer,  and  sat  down  at  one  of  the 
tables. 

At  another  table  a  group  of  four  men  sat,  eating 
and  drinking.  One  of  them,  a  red-faced  man,  in  his 
shirt-sleeves,  was  talking  earnestly  to  the  others. 

"You  boys  had  better  sign,"  he  was  saying.  "It's 
a  good  berth,  and  she  sails  to-night.  What  the  devil 
do  you  want,  anyway?  Ain't  The  Green  Star  good 
enough  for  you  ?" 

Kandall  rose,  and  going  unsteadily  over  to  the  other 
table,  stood  looking  at  the  shirt-sleeved  man,  his  glass 
of  beer  clutched  tightly  in  one  hand. 

"It's  good  enough  for  me/'  he  said,  and  sat  down 
in  a  vacant  chair. 

The  men  looked  at  him  curiously.  Some  of  them 
laughed. 

"Are  you  lookin'  for  a  berth,  mate?"  the  man  with 
the  red  face  inquired. 

"Yes."  Then  he  called  to  the  bar-tender.  "Here, 
Cap !  Give  us  a  drink  for  the  crowd."  He  pulled  from 
his  pocket  his  remaining  dollar  bill,  and  flung  it  upon 
the  table.  "There's  my  last  cent,  boys,"  he  said. 
"Drink  it  up.  After  that,  I'll  sign  to  go  anywhere, 
hell  included,  and  won't  kick  about  the  wages,  either. 
All  I  want  to  do  is  to  get  away  from  New  York." 

The  red-faced  man  smiled  grimly. 

"You're  on,  my  boy,"  he  said,  then  turned  to  the 
bar-keeper.  "Make  mine  a  whiskey." 


CHAPTEK  X. 

WHEN  Eandall  awoke,  it  was  dark,  and  the  place 
in  which  he  found  himself  was  quite  unfamiliar  to 
him.  It  was  a  long,  low-ceiled,  dingy-looking  room, 
faintly  lighted  by  an  oil  lamp  swinging  from  above. 
Someone  was  poking  him  violently  in  the  ribs. 

It  was  a  big  man,  with  enormous  square  shoulders, 
and  a  rusty-looking  red  beard. 

"Turn  out  for  your  watch,  you  lubbers !"  he  roared. 
"We're  getting  under  way.  Turn  out!"  The  man 
passed  on,  thrusting  his  huge  hand  into  the  next  bunk 
with  many  and  choice  objurgations. 

Kandall  sat  up,  and  looked  about  him,  somewhat 
dazed.  The  fumes  of  the  liquor  he  had  drunk  still 
clouded  his  brain. 

He  found  that  he  had  been  lying  in  a  narrow  fore- 
castle bunk,  upon  a  pillow  composed  of  a  greasy  canvas 
bag,  which  seemed  to  be  filled  with  articles  of  clothing. 
His  hat,  coat  and  waistcoat  were  gone,  as  were  his 
shoes,  but  he  still  wore  the  trousers  and  the  blue  flan- 
nel shirt,  which  he  had  put  on  upon  leaving  his  room 
in  Irving  Place. 

The  men  in  the  other  bunks  were  tumbling  out, 
blear-eyed  and  cursing.  The  red-whiskered  man  had 
gone.  Kandall  saw  one  of  the  others  feel  in  his  can- 

119 


120  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

vas  bag,  and  presently  haul  out  a  pair  oi  low  deck 
shoes.  He  did  likewise,  and  found  that  those  in  his 
bag,  although  heavy  and  clumsily  made,  fitted  him 
reasonably  well.  Having  put  them  on,  he  slid  to  the 
floor  and  stood  up. 

A  frightful  pain  shot  through  the  back  of  his  head, 
and  for  a  moment  he  was  so  dizzy  he  could  scarcely 
stand.  The  other  men,  some  seven  or  eight  in  all, 
were  crowding  toward  the  companionway  leading  to 
the  deck. 

Randall  joined  them.  The  man  nearest  him,  a 
youngish-looking  fellow,  with  a  tanned  and  rather 
attractive  face,  turned  to  him  and  laughed. 

"How're  you  feelin'  ?"  he  asked. 

"Pretty  fair,"  Randall  returned,  with  a  rueful 
smile.  "What  ship  is  this  ?" 

"Avalon — tramp  freighter." 

"Where  are  we  going  ?" 

His  companion  grinned. 

"Bound  for  Hong  Kong,  by  way  of  Suez.  Ever 
been  to  sea  before  ?" 

"No,"  Randall  replied,  licking  his  parched  and 
blistered  lips;  "never." 

"Hope  you  like  it!",  said  the  other,  as  they  came 
eut  on  deck. 

It  was  night.  The  breeze  from  the  south-east  had 
become  fresher,  and  a  short,  choppy  sea  covered  the 
surface  of  the  river,  as  the  tide  ran  seaward  against 
it.  Randall  gazed  about  curiously  for  a  moment,  as 
his  eyes  became  accustomed  to  the  half-light. 

He  saw  before  him  a  long  sweep  of  deck,   above 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  121 

which  rose  amidships  a  square  deck-house  surmounted 
by  a  single  black  funnel.  Upon  the  latter  were  painted 
two  red  stripes,  with  a  broader  blue  one  between. 

The  vessel  was  just  drawing  away  from  the  pier, 
under  the  influence  of  two  tugs.  It  was  too  late  to 
turn  back  now,  Randall  realized,  even  had  he  felt  any 
desire  to  do  so,  which  he  did  not.  Over  the  rail, 
he  caught  sight,  for  a  moment,  of  the  myriad  lights 
of  the  city;  it  seemed  to  him  that  they  still  blinked 
in  solemn  derision.  He  hoped  it  would  be  a  long  time 
before  he  should  see  them  again. 

A  keen,  nervous-looking  man,  with  a  black  mustache 
and  a  weather-beaten  face,  whom  Randall  judged  to 
be  one  of  the  officers,  came  toward  them. 

"Here,  you  men!"  he  called  out.  "Lay  aft  there, 
and  stow  those  fenders  and  lines.  And  make  fast 
those  booms,  before  they  carry  something  away.  Lively 
now !" 

The  orders  were  Greek  to  Randall,  but  he  followed 
the  man  who  had  given  him  the  information  about  the 
vessel's  destination,  and  tried  to  look  as  though  he 
knew  what  he  was  about.  He  observed,  as  he  ran 
aft  with  his  companions,  that  there  were  other  men 
upon  the  deck,  the  remainder  of  the  crew,  he  concluded, 
who  were  swiftly  performing  a  variety  of  tasks,  the 
nature  of  which  he  did  not  in  the  least  understand. 

The  black-must  ached  man  and  the  one  with  the 
red  whiskers  were  shouting  out  orders  with  alarming 
frequency.  Randall  stood  beside  the  sailor  he  had 
been  following,  and  assisted  him  in  hauling  over  the 
rail  some  huge  masses  of  rope-work,,  which  even  hia 


122  A  LOST  PAEADISE. 

faint  knowledge  of  nautical  matters  told  him  were 
fenders.  Others  of  the  men  had  swarmed  to  the  booms 
which  projected  like  giant  fingers  from  the  short  masts, 
and  were  lashing  them  amidships,  over  the  cargo 
hatches.  Still  others  began  to  coil  up  apparently  end- 
less dripping  ropes,  with  a  quickness  and  precision  at 
which  Kandall  marveled. 

They  were  out  in  the  stream  now,  and  the  tugs  had 
cast  off,  and  left  them.  From  the  sudden  vibration 
of  the  vessel,  Kandall  knew  that  her  propeller  had 
begun  to  move.  Huge  clouds  of  black  smoke,  shot 
with  red,  rolled  from  her  funnel,  and  streamed  off 
toward  the  north-west,  raining  a  shower  of  cinders 
and  sparks  upon  the  deck.  Kandall  winced  as  one 
of  them  burnt  his  cheek. 

The  excitement  of  the  moment,  the  cool  freshness 
of  the  breeze,  the  novelty  of  the  situation,  had  all 
combined  to  make  Kandall  forget  both  the  immediate 
suffering  due  to  his  aching  head,  and  the  greater  pain 
that  gnawed  at  his  heart.  Now  he  once  more  began 
to  feel  them. 

With  the  other  men  with  whom  he  had  been  work- 
ing he  had  gone  forward.  They  stood  about  the  deck 
and  along  the  rail,  watching  the  lights  of  the  city. 
The  vessel  was  well  under  way.  Already  they  had 
passed  beneath  the  Brooklyn  Bridge,  with  its  fairy- 
like  rows  of  lights,  between  which  the  trains  and  electric 
cars  crawled  like  lazy  fire-flies. 

Randall  swept  the  New  York  shore  with  rebellious 
eyes.  The  towering  cliffs,  with  their  countless  lights, 
represented  majesty,  power,  success.  He  felt  himself 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  123 

an  insignificant  bit  of  dross,  that  had  passed  through 
the  furnace,  and  been  cast  out,  along  with  the  other 
refuse  that  poured  in  a  never-ending  stream  into  the 
river. 

He  thought  of  Inez,  and  shook  his  fist  impotently 
at  the  winking  lights.  This  city,  this  octopus,  that 
had  taken  his  strength,  his  courage,  his  hope,  had 
taken  her  from  him  as  well.  Even  in  the  bitterness 
of  his  despair,  he  did  not  altogether  blame  her.  He 
had  not  stopped  to  inquire  whose  hat  and  gloves  lay 
upon  the  table  in  her  room;  he  knew  they  must  be 
Steinfeldt's ;  yet  even  now,  he  did  not  accuse  her  of 
any  wrong-doing.  In  his  heart,  he  strove  to  find 
excuses  for  her.  Perhaps  Steinfeldt  had  stepped  into 
the  bedroom,  and  drawn  the  curtains,  merely  because 
he  did  not  wish  it  to  be  known  that  he  was  there,  in 
Inez's  rooms.  Possibly  he  had  come  only  to  talk 
with  the  girl  about  the  engagement  he  wished  her  to 
take.  Yet  however  this  might  be,  Bandall  knew  that 
Inez  had  taken  that  engagement — that  the  money  and 
power  that  Steinfeldt's  success  gave  him  had  been 
strong  enough  to  take  her  from  him.  He,  alas,  could 
offer  her  only  love. 

Curiously  enough  he  did  not  see,  at  this  time,  that, 
had  the  love  she  gave  him  been  worthy  of  the  name, 
it  could  not  have  been  purchased  by  a  hundred  Stein- 
feldts,  or  a  thousand  theatrical  engagements.  He  had 
idealized  Inez,  and  would  not  permit  himself  to  see 
that  the  woman  he  had  enshrined  in  his  heart  was  a 
very  different  creature  from  the  one  who  had  handed 
hira  back  his  ring,  two  nights  before. 


124  'A.  LOST  PARADISE. 

He  flung  his  impotent  anathemas  at  the  great  city, 
quite  unappreciative  of  the  fact  that  he  somewhat 
resembled  a  gnat  defying  Niagara  Falls.  Randall 
was  young,  and  his  sense  of  humor  was  as  yet  insuffi- 
ciently developed  to  enable  him  to  laugh  at  himself. 

One  of  the  men,  who  stood  beside  him,  also  gazing 
at  the  city,  spoke  up. 

"What's  the  matter,  mate?"  he  asked,  grinning. 
"Did  your  girl  go  back  on  you?" 

Randall  turned,  and  saw  the  young  man  with  whom 
he  had  been  working  a  short  time  before. 

."Yes,"  he  said  bitterly;  "she  did." 

The  other  laughed. 

"Lord,"  he  said,  "that's  what  sent  me  to  sea,  too. 
Ain't  it  funny,  what  a  lot  o'  sailors  women  make  ? 
Well,  I  got  over  it  before  we  struck  Rio — I  was  goin' 
around  the  Horn,  that  trip — and  I  been  thankin'  her 
ever  since.  I  was  a  sickly  rat  then — something  like 
you.  Now  I  got  a  pair  o'  arms  on  me  like  hams, 
and  could  eat  my  boots  if  I  had  to.  God!"  He  ex- 
panded his  chest,  and  drew  in  a  breath  of  the  salt 
breeze.  "Ain't  that  great,  after  them  rotten  streets  ?" 

They  were  passing  Quarantine  now,  and  the  lights 
of  the  city  had  grown  dim.  Randall  spat  contemptu- 
ously over  the  side,  and  turned  his  back  on  them. 

"Thank  God,  we're  going  east,"  he  said. 

His  companion  laughed. 

"About  the  only  way  there  is  to  go,  mate,  from 
here,"  he  said.  "Leastways,  you  couldn't  go  west,  very 
well — not  aboard  ship.  Never  been  to  Suez,  I  take 
it." 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  125 

"No." 

"Well,  believe  me,  you'll  see  life  out  there — real 
life.  I  made  this  trip  once  before,  and  I'll  be  glad 
when  we  get  there  again." 

The  man  with  the  red  whiskers,  who  was  standing 
amidships,  came  toward  them,  bawling  out  an  order. 
Randall  could  not  make  out  what  it  was.  He  asked 
his  companion,  as  they  hurried  aft. 

"Never  mind,"  said  the  latter,  "I'll  show  you.  Just 
you  stick  along  with  me." 

Randall  caught  one  last  glimpse  of  the  cluster  of 
lights  astern,  which  marked  the  position  of  the  city, 
then  forgot  all  about  them  in  the  work  before  him. 
His  course  was  set  toward  the  east.  It  was  not  likely, 
he  thought,  that  he  would  see  New  York  for  a  long 
time  to  come,  and  in  this  supposition  he  was  entirely 
correct. 


CHAPTER  XL 

THE  setting  sun  was  just  gilding  the  summit  of  Vic- 
toria Peak,  as  the  P.  &  0.  liner,  Batavia,  drew  slowly 
out  of  the  harbor  of  Hong  Kong. 

The  flock  of  low-lying  sampans  fell  slowly  astern, 
as  the  vessel  gained  headway,  and  the  bat-winged  river 
craft  tossed  heavily,  with  a  shrill  creaking  and  groan- 
ing of  their  yards,  as  her  bow  wave  caught  them. 

Upon  the  sloping  hillsides  innumerable  lights  began 
to  appear  from  out  of  the  gloom,  like  glow-worms 
among  the  foliage,  while  in  the  streets  along  the  water- 
front people  of  half  a  hundred  nationalities  sought 
the  evening  breeze. 

There  was  a  curious  thin  mist  upon  the  face  of  the 
water,  so  diaphanous  as  to  be  almost  invisible,  yet 
sufficient  to  blur  the  circling  line  of  the  horizon,  and 
veil  the  lights  along  the  shore,  as  the  vessel  drew 
away  from  them,  with  a  soft  mysterious  haze. 

From  the  mouth  of  the  river,  a  gentle  land  breeze 
brought  down  the  smell  of  moist  wet  earth  and  of 
flowers,  and  with  it  a  suggestion  of  the  East,  intan- 
gible, yet  by  those  who  know  it  never  to  be  forgotten. 

A  young  man  standing  alongside  the  rail  of  the 
vessel,  far  forward,  gazed  back  at  the  slowly  disap- 
pearing city,  and  smiled  whimsically  to  himself  as 

126 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  127 

he  hummed,  "The  Road  to  Mandalay,"  beneath  his 
breath. 

He  was  a  sturdy-looking  young  fellow,  quite  evi- 
dently from  his  dress  a  sailor.  His  face,  tanned  to 
the  color  of  leather,  looked  youthful  enough,  in  spite 
of  the  brown  beard  that  covered  its  lower  portion. 
His  eyes,  sparkling  with  vitality,  were  encircled  by 
no  tell-tale  wrinkles,  while  the  smoothness  of  his  skin, 
the  self-reliant  carriage  of  his  shoulders,  the  elasticity 
of  his  movements,  bespoke  that  perfection  of  health 
which  comes  from  an  active  life  in  the  open  air,  in 
close  touch  with  nature. 

It  was  a  full  three  months  since  Richard  Randall  had 
sailed,  ill  and  broken-hearted,  out  past  the  Sandy 
Hook  light-ship,  and  in  that  three  months  he  had 
become  a  man.  The  process  had  been  a  trying  one. 
His  ignorance  of  life  aboard  ship  had  caused  him 
much  suffering  at  first,  but  he  had  endured  it  with 
the  courage  of  a  stoic,  and  had  thereby  proven  the 
quality  of  the  metal  within  him. 

Ill,  nervously  a  wreck,  anxious  to  forget  the  past, 
he  had  thrown  himself  into  his  new  duties  with  the 
courage  of  desperation,  and  found  to  his  great  sur- 
prise that  they  were  by  no  means  as  difficult  as  his 
first  impressions  had  led  him  to  suppose.  Having  an 
intelligent  mind,  he  readily  grasped  the  significance 
of  the  tasks  that  confronted  him  day  after  day,  and 
his  very  anxiety  to  forget  the  events  that  had  led  up 
to  the  sudden  departure  from  New  York,  caused  him 
to  concern  himself  the  more  deeply  with  the  details 
which  made  up  his  new  life. 


128  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

The  Avalon  had  made  a  rather  slow  outward  pas- 
sage; thirty-five  days  to  Suez,  seventy  to  Hong  Kong. 
Eandall  had  plenty  of  time  to  acquire  his  sea  legs, 
learn  the  difference  between  a  belaying  pin  and  a 
capstan  bar,  and  how  to  splice  a  three-inch  hawser. 
He  also  acquired  a  fondness  for  ship's  biscuit  and 
salt  pork,  and  to  his  astonishment  his  health,  instead 
of  breaking  down  under  the  hard  work  and  coarse 
diet,  improved  from  day  to  day  by  leaps  and  bounds. 

In  a  week,  he  had  entirely  lost  sight  of  the  fact 
that  he  possessed  such  a  thing  as  a  set  of  nerves.  In 
a  month,  he  found  that  his  muscles  were  as  hard  as 
iron,  that  he  had  apparently  gained  ten  to  fifteen 
pounds,  and  that  he  slept  like  a  boy  of  twelve.  By 
the  time  he  reached  Hong  Kong,  Inez  Gordon,  his 
plays,  all  the  turmoil  of  the  past  two  years,  seemed 
to  have  sunk  beneath  the  horizon,  along  with  New 
York  and  its  malignant  lights.  He  felt  free,  gloriously 
free,  as  he  breathed  in  the  wonderful  life-giving  sea 
air,  and  existence,  which  had  worn  such  a  grim  and 
forbidding  aspect,  now  smiled  benignly  upon  him. 

He  had  drunk  deep  of  the  great  recuperative  forces 
of  Nature,  and  they  had  made  him  whole  again.  He 
came  at  last  to  laugh  at  himself,  and  at  the  absurd 
terrors  that  had  possessed  him.  In  all  its  moods,  from 
its  hot  glassy  calms  to  the  turbulence  and  riot  of  its 
north-west  storms,  the  ocean  was  to  him  a  source  of 
delight.  He  felt  as  though  he  had  begun  a  new  life, 
a  life  that  in  itself  was  an  end.  And  all  of  these 
miraculous  changes  were  wrought  by  that  single 
sovereign  remedy,  good  health. 


'A.  LOST  PARADISE.  129 

At  times,  he  wondered  what  his  future  would  be, 
but  these  occasions  were  rare,  and  the  mood  lasted 
only  a  short  time.  The  very  fact  that  he  was  alive, 
and  well,  and  free,  seemed  in  itself  sufficient  to  justify 
his  being.  With  his  innate  love  for  beauty  in  all 
its  forms,  he  had  only  to  look  at  the  sea,  in  some  of 
its  countless  fantastic  aspects,  to  find  recompense  for 
all  the  hardships  he  had  undergone. 

And  these  hardships  were  many.  Over  and  over, 
in  the  earlier  weeks  of  the  voyage,  he  had  been  made 
to  feel  the  depth  of  his  ignorance  on  all  matters  per- 
taining to  life  aboard  ship,  and,  but  for  his  unvary- 
ing good  nature  and  patience,  his  willingness  to  learn, 
he  would  doubtless  have  fared  hardly  at  the  hands 
of  his  superiors.  They  realized,  however,  after  a  time, 
the  stuff  that  was  in  him,  and,  contrary  to  the  ac- 
cepted ideas  of  seafaring  life,  helped  him  to  grasp 
the  meaning  of  his  duties,  and  how  to  perform  them, 
instead  of  knocking  him  senseless  with  a  belaying  pin. 
The  result  was,  that,  when  The  Avalon  dropped  anchor 
in  the  harbor  of  Hong  Kong,  Randall  was  a  first-rate 
deck-hand,  if  not  an  able  seaman. 

At  Hong  Kong,  he  learned  that  the  vessel  was  to 
charter  for  a  cargo  of  silks  to  London ;  he  did  not  sign 
for  the  voyage,  but,  instead,  drew  the  pay  that  was 
due  him,  and  made  his  way  ashore.  He  had  no  desire 
to  return  so  quickly  to  the  turmoil  of  every-day  life. 
The  East  had  laid  its  spell  upon  him — he  had  the 
smell  of  its  spices  in  his  nostrils,  the  tinkle  of  its 
pagoda  bells  in  his  ears.  He  went  ashore,  found  a 
boarding-place  near  the  water-front,  and  proceeded 


130  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

to  see  Victoria  and  the  hinterland  to  his  heart's  con- 
tent, for  somewhat  over  a  month. 

At  the  end  of  that  period,  realizing  that  his  store 
of  money  was  becoming  exceedingly  low,  he  applied 
at  the  offices  of  the  Pacific  and  Orient  Company  for 
a  job  as  deck-hand  upon  one  of  their  steamers.  The 
result,  much  to  his  surprise,  had  been  a  berth  upon 
The  Batavia,  then  in  port.  Possibly  his  intelligent 
appearance,  his  air  of  self-respect  and  cleanliness,  had 
much  to  do  with  it.  At  all  events,  he  found  himself, 
within  forty-eight  hours  after  having  made  his  appli- 
cation, stowing  his  things  away  in  The  Batavia's  fore- 
castle. 

It  was  the  morning  after  they  had  left  Hong  Kong 
that  Randall  experienced  the  first  shock  which  had 
come  to  him  since  he  left  New  York. 

It  was  a  marvelously  quiet  day,  and  excessively 
hot.  The  sun  sizzled  and  boiled  upon  the  freshly 
holystoned  decks,  and  puffed  up  the  paint  on  the  rails 
in  little  bulbous-looking  blisters.  The  sea  was  calm 
and  motionless;  even  the  ground  swell  was  almost 
imperceptible.  The  sky,  a  thin,  faded  blue,  seemed 
permeated  with  the  tropic  heat.  A  dazzling,  quiver- 
ing radiance  of  the  air  arose  perceptibly  from  the 
decks;  it  seemed  as  though  the  heat  were  fairly  visible, 
as  it  was  reflected  from  their  immaculate  surface. 

The  oily  expanse  of  the  sea  was-  broken  only  by  the 
dash  of  an  occasional  flying  fish,  as  it  hung  suspended 
in  a  cloud  of  iridescent  spray.  A  long  white  fur- 
row of  foam  extended  to  the  right  and  left  from  the 
steamer's  bow,  losing  itself  in  the  wake  churned  up 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  131 

by  her  propellers.  Beyond  this,  the  ocean  stretched, 
limitless,  to  the  hazy  horizon. 

There  was  no  breeze,  except  that  made  by  the  motion 
of  the  vessel.  It  served  to  carry  away  the  thin  gray 
wisp  of  smoke  from  her  funnels,  until  it  lost  itself 
in  the  blue  of  the  sky. 

The  passengers  were  mostly  seated  aft,  under  the 
shade  of  an  awning.  Kandall,  with  two  of  his  com- 
panions, was  busy  on  the  promenade  deck  forward, 
rigging  a  wind-shield. 

He  had  just  completed  his  task,  and  was  about  to 
descend  to  the  main  deck,  when  he  heard  someone 
behind  him,  speaking  in  a  voice  so  vibrant  and  com- 
pelling that  he  turned  at  once  to  observe  the  per- 
sonality of  its  owner. 

A  girl  of  some  twenty-two  or  three  stood  before  him, 
dressed  in  a  suit  of  thin  white  pongee,  and  wearing 
a  Panama  hat,  tied  about  with  a  green  veil.  She 
was  a  trifle  over  the  average  height  for  a  woman,  and 
her  figure  was  of  that  unusual  quality  which  suggests 
strength  and  power  without  carrying  the  suggestion  of 
size.  Kandall,  with  his  keen  appreciation  of  the  beauti- 
ful, felt  a  momentary  shock  of  pleasure,  as  his  eyes 
traveled  from  the  girl's  well-rounded  shoulders  and 
full,  deep  breast  to  her  slender  waist  and  exquisitely 
molded  hips.  She  seemed  to  give  out  at  once  an  im- 
pression of  grace  and  of  femininity,  through  which 
penetrated  a  suggestion  of  subtle  and  conscious  power, 
a  perfection  of  muscular  development,  which  could 
have  found  its  origin  only  in  perfect  health. 

But  it  was  her  face  that  most  strongly  held  his 


132  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

attention.  He  could  not  have  told,  at  the  moment, 
whether  her  eyes  were  light  or  dark,  blue  or  brown; 
but  he  was  conscious  that  they  held  his  with  a  most 
extraordinary  and  compelling  power.  And,  even  while 
he  was  searching  their  depths,  he  became  aware  of 
her  amused  smile,  and  heard  her  repeat,  in  a  voice 
at  once  musical  and  peremptory,  the  question  that  had 
at  first  attracted  his  attention. 

"Can  you  tell  me,  my  man,"  she  said,  "whether  or 
not  that  is  the  island  of  Hainan  ?"  She  indicated  with 
her  parasol  a  hazy  blue  blur  upon  the  horizon. 

"I — I  really  don't  know,"  Randall  stammered,  gaz- 
ing off  to  starboard. 

"You  don't  know!     That's  queer." 

"Not  very,  Miss.  This  is  my  first  trip  through  the 
China  Sea." 

"Oh,  I  see.  Perhaps  some  of  the  others  can  tell 
me."  She  turned  her  back,  and  started  toward  the 
opposite  side  of  the  deck. 

Eandall  watched  her  as  she  strolled  aft,  and  his 
heart  gave  a  singular  and  most  unusual  leap.  The 
girl's  manner  had  been  coolly  patronizing;  she  spoke 
to  him  quite  as  one  speaks  to  an  inferior;  doubtless 
she  regarded  him  as  merely  an  ignorant  laborer,  like 
the  usual  run  of  his  class.  Yet  he  fancied  he  had 
detected,  behind  the  barriers  of  class,  a  lurking  gleam 
of  responsiveness  in  the  depths  -  of  her  cool  gray 
eyes.  She  impressed  him  as  a  woman  bound  about 
so  tightly  by  the  bonds  of  convention  and  caste  that 
her  individuality  had  become  oppressed,  almost 
obscured  by  it;  yet  that  momentary  flash  of  her  eyes, 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  133 

as  they  met  his,  told  him  that,  perhaps  quite  unknown 
to  her,  a  spirit  of  rebellion  dwelt  behind  the  bulwarks 
of  her  training,  which  might  rise  up  and  devastate 
her  soul,  should  occasion  offer. 

The  object  of  his  thoughts,  quite  unconscious  of  the 
havoc  her  glances  had  made,  strolled  toward  the  awn- 
ing aft,  radiating  vitality,  charm,  in  her  every  move- 
ment. Randall,  oblivious  of  the  fact  that  his  com- 
panions had  long  since  descended  to  the  forward  deck, 
busied  himself  with  an  imaginary  adjusting  of  one  of 
the  lashings  of  the  wind-shield,  while  at  the  same  time 
keeping  his  eyes  upon  the  girl.  He  had  never  met  a 
woman  just  like  her.  By  some  intuition  he  knew  that 
she  was  English,  and  realized  to  how  much  greater 
an  extent  convention  entered  into  the  lives  of  the 
women  of  that  country  than  it  did  into  those  of  his 
own — at  least  such  of  them  as  he  had  met,  Inez 
Gordon,  for  instance.  He  made  the  comparison  invol- 
untarily, then  shuddered.  This  woman  seemed,  for 
all  the  humanness  of  her  frank  and  honest  eyes,  to 
be  remote  from  the  commonplace  affairs  of  the  world. 
She  carried  with  her  a  suggestion  of  Old  English 
manor  houses,  of  peacocks  in  an  Italian  Garden,  of 
race  and  breeding  and  ancestry  that  somehow  placed 
at  once  a  barrier  between  her  and  the  things  of  every- 
day life. 

These  and  many  more  thoughts  raced  through 
Randall's  brain  as  he  completed  his  imaginary  task, 
and  returned  to  the  lower  deck.  The  ship's  bell  told 
him  that  his  watch  was  over,  and  that  dinner  was 
ready  below.  He  descended  the  companion-way,  uncon- 


134  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

scious  of  the  heat,  the  steaming  smell  of  cooking  from 
the  galley,  the  loud  talking  of  his  companions.  A 
sweetness  as  of  hawthorn  hedges,  or  wood  violets,  per- 
meated his  soul.  He  ate  listlessly,  mechanically,  and, 
when  the  meal  was  over,  flung  himself  into  his  ham- 
mock, and  wandered  in  a  long  vista  of  day-dreams. 

It  had  seemed  to  him,  when  he  left  Hong  Kong, 
that  health,  freedom,  nature,  spelt  life.  Now  he  be- 
gan to  see  that  these  things  were,  after  all,  only  a 
preparation  for  the  realities  of  existence.  To  obtain 
them,  he  had  placed  between  himself  and  the  people 
of  his  own  class  a  wide  gulf.  Unless  he  could  in  some 
way  bridge  that  gulf,  lif§  would  be  but  living  as  an 
animal  lives,  eating,  sleeping,  resting  in  the  hot  tropic 
sun. 

Already  the  call  of  battle,  the  desire  to  accomplish 
things,  rang  in  his  brain.  Had  he  been  a  success  as 
a  writer,  a  playwright,  the  acquaintance,  even  pos- 
sibly the  love,  of  a  woman  such  as  the  one  who  had 
spoken  to  him  on  deck  would  be  within  his  reach. 
Love !  He  wondered  why  she  had  made  him  think  of 
love.  Was  it  possible  that,  in  one  momentary  glance, 
she  had  caused  him  to  care  for  her  ?  He  smiled  at  the 
thought,  yet  it  persisted,  and  even  grew  in  force  and 
intensity.  Doubtless  the  romantic  idea  of  love  at  first 
sight  was  a  dream  of  poets,  yet,  when  his  watch  again 
came  around,  he  found  himself  searching  the  promenade 
with  eager  and  persistent  eyes,  wondering  whether,  by 
any  chance,  he  would  again  catch  sight  of  the  object 
of  his  thoughts.  In  this,  however,  he  was  disappointed. 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  135 

If  she  came  on  deck  at  all  during  the  evening,  she 
doubtless  remained  aft,  where  he  could  not  see  her. 

That  night  he  did  not  sleep  well.  Snatches  of 
poetry  whirled  through  his  brain.  He  even  found 
himself  composing  verses,  which  he  regretted  his 
inability  to  write  down.  The  vessel  plowed  along, 
with  almost  uncanny  steadiness,  through  a  violet  gray 
sea,  which  lay  so  still  and  silent  that  it  mirrored  the 
stars. 

There  was  an  ominous  note  in  the  way  the  water 
slapped  and  gurgled  against  the  ship's  side.  Randall, 
with  some  newly  developed  sixth  sense,  felt  in  the  close, 
hot  silence  of  the  night  the  coming  of  a  storm. 

He  was  awake  long  before  dawn,  and,  although  it 
was  not  yet  the  hour  for  his  watch,  he  made  his  way 
to  the  deck,  and,  standing  far  forward,  watched  the 
rising  of  the  sun. 

The  vessel  was  headed  nearly  due  east,  and  her 
wake  was  still  enveloped  in  the  ghostly  shadows  of  the 
night.  In  the  eastern  sky,  however,  there  showed  a 
faint  glow  that  dimmed  the  stars,  and  touched  the 
mist  upon  the  surface  of  the  sea  with  a  marvelous 
translucence.  Apparently  colorless,  it  yet  suggested 
faintly  all  the  prismatic  colors. 

In  an  incredibly  short  time,  the  glow  had  increased 
in  intensity,  and  deepened  in  tone,  until  it  spread  in 
a  great  fan  of  lemon  and  rose  almost  to  the  zenith. 

The  mist  upon  the  eastern  horizon  vanished.  Flam- 
ing darts  of  red  and  gold  shot  heavenward.  The  flat 
surface  of  the  sea  changed  from  violet  to  a  brilliant 


136  A  LOST  PAKADISE. 

mauve,  which  slowly  turned  to  silver  as  the  rim  of 
the  sun  arose  above  the  horizon. 

And  then,  almost  magically,  the  dawn  had  come, 
and  the  surface  of  the  ocean  danced  in  its  radiance. 
About  the  sun  long  streaming  clouds  of  orange  and 
rose  spread  in  either  direction  almost  as  far  as  the 
eye  could  reach.  It  was  the  sort  of  sunrise  that 
presages  rough  weather,  yet  the  sea  was  as  quiet,  as 
motionless,  as  death  itself.  Kandall  was  conscious  of 
a  tenseness,  an  electrical  tingling  in  the  air,  which  he 
had  never  observed  before.  He  glanced  at  the  cloud- 
less sky,  laughed  at  his  premonitions,  and  went  below 
for  breakfast.  His  thoughts  were  still  centered  upon 
the  young  English  girl  with  the  amazingly  contra- 
dictory eyes. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

IT  was  noon  of  the  third  day  out,  and  Randall  had 
not  yet  caught  sight  of  the  object  of  his  dreams.  He 
wondered  whether  she  might  be  ill,  yet  realized  the 
absurdity  of  such  supposition.  Rarely  had  he  seen 
a  woman  who  so  radiated  health. 

His  duties,  during  the  forenoon,  much  to  his  regret, 
kept  him  forward.  It  was,  therefore,  with  something 
of  a  shock  that  he  presently  saw  the  girl  advancing 
toward  him  along  the  main  deck.  She  had  a  small 
camera  in  her  hand,  and  was  taking  snap-shots  of  the 
various  objects  that  attracted  her  attention. 

Randall,  at  the  moment,  was  standing  beside  the 
capstan,  polishing  its  brass-work  with  a  bit  of  rag. 
His  hands  were  grimy,  his  face  flushed  with  the  heat. 
He  straightened  up  as  the  girl  came  toward  him,  and 
rather  sheepishly  touched  his  cap. 

"Oh,  don't  move,  please,"  she  exclaimed.  "I  want 
to  get  you  just  as  you  were." 

Randall  resumed  his  polishing.  Presently  he  heard 
the  click  of  the  shutter,  then  again  looked  at  the  girl. 

She  seemed,  if  anything,  more  charming  now  than 
before.  Her  cheeks  were  glowing,  her  eyes  dancing. 
He  thought,  as  he  observed  her  graceful,  yet  muscular, 
figure,  that  she  must  have  done  a  great  deal  of  out- 
door exercise. 

137 


138  A  LOST  PAEADISE. 

She  came  a  bit  nearer,  and  smiled  at  him  quizzically. 

"It  was  Hainan,"  she  said.     "You  ought  to  know, 

don't  you  think? — in  case   anybody  else  should   ask 

you." 

"Thank  you,  Miss."  He  again  pulled  at  his  cap. 
"I'll  remember  it,  this  time." 

"You're  not  an  Englishman,  are  you  ?"  she  inquired. 

"No,  Miss.     I'm  an  American." 

"Oh,  that  accounts  for  it.  I  thought  you  seemed 
a  bit  different.  Do  you  think  we  are  going  to  have  a 
storm  ?  Captain  Farrabee  tells  me  the  barometer  is 
going  down  frightfully." 

"It  looks  like  it,  Miss." 

"I'm  so  glad!"  she  laughed.  "I've  always  wanted 
to  see  a  typhoon.  What  is  that  thing  you're  clean- 
ing?" 

"The  capstan,  Miss." 

"What's  it  for?" 

"To  get  up  the  anchor,  Miss,  although  it's  only 
used  in  case  of  emergency.  They  use  steam,  mostly." 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  with  a  pleased  look,  and 
passed  on. 

Eandall  realized  fully  that  he  was  of  no  more 
importance  in  her  eyes  than  the  brass-work  he  was 
cleaning.  She  had  questioned  him  as  she  might  have 
questioned  a  deck-steward.  It  galled  him  somewhat, 
although  he  knew  that  only  the  fact  that  she  so 
regarded  him  made  it  possible  for  her  to  speak  to  him 
at  all.  He  sighed,  and  went  on  with  his  work.  How 
absurd,  after  all,  his  thoughts  were!  He  might  as 
readily  concern  himself  with  the  moon. 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  139 

At  four  o'clock,  Randall,  who  was  lying  in  his  ham- 
mock during  the  watch  below,  felt  a  gentle  swaying 
movement,  as  the  liner  dipped  to  a  long  ground  swell. 
It  was  the  first  motion  of  the  sea  that  he  had  noticed 
since  they  left  Hong  Kong.  He  rose  and  peered  out 
through  an  open  port-hole.  A  faint  puff  of  warm 
sultry  air  met  him,  but  it  ceased  almost  immediately, 
and  he  saw  that  the  surface  of  the  sea  still  presented 
the  oily  calm  which  had  characterized  it  since  the  night 
before. 

The  sun  was  still  shining,  but  its  rays  were  slightly 
veiled,  as  though  they  came  through  an  invisible  screen 
of  gauze.  He  went  back  to  his  ham  mock,  cursing  the 
intolerable  heat. 

It  was  during  his  watch  on  deck,  that  evening,  that 
the  first  breath  of  the  storm  struck  them.  Away  off 
to  the  north-west  he  saw  that  the  surface  of  the  ocean 
presented  a  darker  hue,  and  presently  a  long  black 
line,  like  a  shadow,  began  to  move  swiftly  toward  the 
vessel.  It  was  the  line  of  ripples  caused  by  the  on- 
coming breeze. 

At  first  but  a  few  gentle  puffs,  moist  and  redolent 
with  the  odors  of  the  land,  swept  the  plume  of  smoke 
from  the  vessel's  funnels,  and  carried  it  off  toward  the 
south.  A  low  sighing,  like  the  notes  of  a  wind  harp, 
vibrated  through  the  air.  The  rigging  of  the  liner 
creaked  complainingly,  as  the  breeze  became  stronger, 
and  the  ground  swell  grew  in  size. 

In  half  an  hour,  the  force  of  the  wind  had  increased 
to  such  a  point  that  the  passengers  sitting  on  deck 
sought  the  lee  side  of  the  deck-house,  and  Randall 


140  A  LOST  PAEADISE. 

felt  from  time  to  time  the  sting  of  a  bit  of  salt  spray, 
as  it  spun  over  the  rail. 

The  stars,  which  an  hour  earlier  had  been  shining 
faintly  in  the  misty  sky,  were  now  all  blotted  out, 
toward  the  west,  by  huge,  towering  inky  clouds  that 
crept  toward  the  zenith  with  astonishing  rapidity. 
Gradually  the  entire  dome  of  the  heavens  became  ob- 
scured, and  a  hot,  close-pressing  darkness  wrapped  the 
ship  about. 

The  passengers  had  by  this  time  nearly  all  gone 
to  their  state-rooms.  Randall  and  the  other  men  in 
his  watch  were  busy  stowing  away  the  awnings  and 
wind-shields,  battening  down  the  hatch-covers  which, 
owing  to  the  heat,  had  been  raised,  and  making  fast 
with  additional  lashings  everything  movable  about  the 
decks. 

The  wind  steadily  gained  in  strength.  By  midnight 
it  tore  through  the  rigging  in  long,  mournful  cadences, 
like  the  distant  howling  of  a  pack  of  wolves.  The 
force  of  the  ground  swell  had  measurably  increased. 
In  great,  ponderous  masses,  it  rolled  toward  the  ship, 
and,  sweeping  under  her  quarter,  twisted  her  from 
end  to  end  with  a  quivering  motion  that  made  her 
groan  in  every  rivet  and  frame. 

When  Randall  went  below,  at  the  end  of  his  watch, 
the  darkness  was  so  great  that  he  could  with  diffi- 
culty make  his  way  to  the  forecastle  hatch,  and  the 
motion  of  the  vessel  nearly  threw  him  from  his  feet. 
Accustomed  as  he  had  become  to  rough  weather  at 
sea,  he  still  found  great  difficulty  in  sleeping.  The 
roar  of  the  storm  increased,  as  the  night  wore  on,  and 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  141 

the  plunging  of  the  vessel,  as  she  wallowed  through 
the  tremendous  seas,  made  her  quiver  from  stem  to 
stern. 

By  morning  the  full  force  of  the  typhoon,  had 
reached  them.  It  was  impossible  to  maintain  a  foot- 
ing on  the  wet  and  slippery  decks,  even  in  the  shelter 
of  the  deck-house,  without  clinging  to  the  rail.  The 
sky  was  a  deep-gray  black,  over  the  face  of  which 
darker  masses  of  clouds,  thin  and  widely  spread,  like 
smoke,  tore  with  frightful  rapidity.  The  sea  was  a 
tumult  of  towering  waves,  down  the  sides  of  which 
swept  great  masses  of  wind-tossed  foam.  The  course 
of  the  vessel  had  been  changed — she  now  was  headed 
more  to  the  south,  in  an  effort  to  escape  beyond  the 
limits  of  the  storm's  cyclonic  whirl.  It  seemed  ques- 
tionable whether  she  would  be  able  to  hold  this  course ; 
the  rush  of  the  waves  against  her  starboard  quarter 
seemed  momentarily  about  to  engulf  her.  From  time 
to  time  the  seas  hurled  themselves  clear  over  the  after 
rail,  and  swept  knee-deep  along  the  decks. 

Randall  wondered  if  it  could  possibly  blow  ^ny 
harder,  as  he  crouched  in  the  lee  of  the  deck-house 
forward,  and  watched  the  seething  riot  of  the  waves. 
With  the  exception  of  the  other  men  of  his  watch  and 
the  officers  on  the  bridge,  the  decks  were  deserted. 
He  wondered  what  the  young  English  girl  was  doing. 
He  hoped  that  she  was  not  seasick,  like  most  of  the 
other  passengers. 

About  eleven  o'clock  in  the  forenoon  there  came  a 
slight  cessation  in  the  force  of  the  gale,  although  the 
sea  was,  if  anything,  more  tempestuous  than  before. 


142  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

Eandall  was  glad  of  even  a  temporary  relief  from  the 
grinding  roar  of  the  storm.  Its  force  had  been  so  great 
that  he  could  scarcely  breathe,  and  under  no  circum- 
stances could  he  have  spoken — the  wind  would  have 
torn  the  words  half -uttered  from  his  mouth,  and  flung 
them,  meaningless,  off  to  sea. 

He  raised  himself  painfully  to  his  feet,  for  the  long 
crouching  in  one  position  had  left  him  stiff  and  sore. 
The  rolling  of  the  deck  was  tremendous.  He  clung 
to  the  rail,  and  swept  a  look  aft,  toward  the  north-west. 
But  there  was  no  indication  of  any  relief.  The  smoky 
clouds  were  tearing  southward  with  a  speed  almost  as 
great  as  before,  in  an  apparently  endless  procession. 

And  then,  to  his  utter  amazement,  one  of  the  doors 
leading  from  the  deck-house  was  suddenly  opened,  and 
he  saw  the  young  English  girl,  hatless  and  wrapped  in 
a  long  water-proof  coat,  step  out  upon  the  tumbling 
deck,  and  fall,  rather  than  walk,  toward  the  rail. 

"I  want  to  see  the  storm,"  she  called,  at  the  top  of 
her  voice.  Through  the  tumult  of  sound,  Randall 
barely  managed  to  catch  her  words.  He  moved  un- 
steadily toward  her  along  the  rail,  and,  when  he  had 
come  up  to  her,  roared  into  her  ear. 

"Go  below.    It  isn't  safe.    Go  below." 

She  laughed,  and  twisted  her  arm  about  a  stanchion. 

"I'm  all  right,"  she  said.    "It's— it's— glorious." 

Randall  was  at  a  loss  what  to  do.  He  knew  that, 
should  any  of  the  officers  learn  of  her  presence  on  deck, 
they  would  insist  upon  her  going  below  at  once.  The 
storm  was  by  no  means  over;  on  the  contrary,  the  sud- 
den rush  of  the  gale,  the  shrieking  and  roaring  of  it,  as 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  143 

it  again  swept  down  upon  the  vessel,  told  him  that  the 
lull  had  been  but  a  temporary  one. 

The  force  of  the  wind  evidently  surprised  the  girl. 
She  clung  to  the  stanchion  with  both  arms  now,  and 
her  smile  grew  somewhat  less  confident.  She  tried  to 
say  something  to  Randall,  but  the  roar  of  the  storm  was 
so  great  that  he  could  not  make  out  what  it  was.  He 
pointed  in  silence  to  the  door  through  which  she  had 
come,  but  she  shook  her  head. 

And,  then,  a  blast  of  wind  struck  them,  compared  to 
which  the  previous  efforts  of  the  storm  seemed  trivial. 
The  vessel  careened  as  though  some  mighty  hand  had 
struck  her  a  blow.  A  mountainous  roller  swept  over 
her  quarter,  and  tore  down  the  alleyway,  foaming 
breast  high  along  the  side  of  the  deck-house. 

Randall  jumped  for  the  girl,  and,  throwing  his  arms 
about  her,  clung  with  all  his  force  to  the  stanchion. 
For  an  instant,  it  seemed  to  him  that  his  arms  were 
being  torn  from  their  sockets.  He  heard  a  cry  above 
the  roar  of  the  storm  from  one  of  the  crew  who  saw 
their  predicament,  and  then,  with  a  mighty  wrench,  the 
on-rushing  water  flung  them  over  the  rail  as  though 
they  had  been  two  bits  of  cork. 

As  he  plunged  down  the  receding  face  of  the  wave, 
his  arms  still  about  the  girl,  Randall  caught  a  moment- 
ary glimpse  of  the  vessel  as  it  tore  by  them  in  a  cloud  of 
spindrift  and  spray,  and  saw  a  round  white .  object, 
which  he  knew  to  be  a  life-buoy,  come  hurtling  through 
the  air  toward  him. 

He  flung  himself  upon  it,  one  hand  clutching  his 
companion's  arm,  and  managed  to  grasp  the  life-buoy 


144  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

with  the  other.  The  girl,  in  spite  of  the  shock,  was  still 
conscious,  and  seemed  to  understand  what  he  expected 
of  her.  Apparently  she  could  swim,  although  little 
opportunity  to  do  so  presented  itself  in  this  boiling 
waste  of  surge  and  foam.  She  managed,  however,  to 
slip  the  water-proof  from  her  shoulders,  and  clung  with 
both  hands  to  the  buoy. 

There  was  a  bit  of  rope  attached  to  it.  Eandall 
succeeded  in  getting  this  about  the  girl's  waist,  and 
making  it  fast.  The  task  was  no  easy  one,  for  the 
smother  of  foam,  the  force  of  the  gale,  as  they  rose 
to  the  top  of  the  next  wave,  almost  choked  him.  He 
was  astonished  to  find  that  they  lived  at  all,  yet  he  saw 
that,  when  they  swirled  down  the  long  sloping  sides  of 
the  swells,  they  were  almost  completely  protected  from 
the  force  of  the  wind ;  it  was  only  when  they  rose  to  the 
crests  that  they  felt  its  fury. 

The  water  was  warm,  and  on  this  score  they  felt  no 
discomfort ;  their  greatest  dangers  lay  in  the  possibility 
that,  when  the  crests  of  the  waves  swept  over  them,  they 
would  be  suffocated,  or  that  they  might  be  wrenched 
from  their  hold  upon  the  buoy.  Eandall  had  secured 
the  girl  so  that  this  danger  did  not  threaten  her,  but  he 
found  his  own  arms  already  becoming  sore  from  the 
effort  to  hold  on  to  the  slippery  canvas  ring.  At  last,  in 
the  momentary  safety  of  a  lull  between  two  waves,  he 
managed  to  take  off  his  belt,  and  by  buckling  it  about 
the  buoy,  formed  a  loop  through  which  he  could  slip 
one  arm. 

He  soon  found  that,  by  turning  their  backs  to  the 
crests  of  the  waves  as  they  rose,  they  could  hold  their 


A  LOST  PAEADISE.  145 

breaths  until  the  welter  of  wind  and  foam  swept  over 
them,  and  thus  avoid  suffocation,  for  a  time  at  least. 

And,  after  all,  what  was  the  use  in  prolonging  the 
agony  of  their  death  ?  For  that  death  faced  them,,  he 
felt  certain.  The  Batavia  had  long  since  disappeared 
in  a  welter  of  foam  and  spray  to  the  south-east.  She 
could  not  have  paused  in  that  headlong  flight,  even  had 
the  captain  been  foolhardy  enough  to  have  made  the 
attempt,  and  to  launch  a  boat  would  have  been  suicidal. 
It  could  not  have  lived  a  moment  in  that  boiling  sea. 

There  remained,  apparently,  no  possible  chance  for 
them,  unless,  indeed,  some  land  were  near,  and  this, 
Eandall  felt  sure,  was  out  of  the  question.  The  Batavia 
had  driven,  he  knew,  since  leaving  Hong  Kong,  con- 
siderably out  of  her  course,  but  whether  she  had  passed 
to  the  east  or  the  west  of  the  island  of  Luzon,  he  did 
not  know.  The  former  seemed  to  him  more  likely,  as 
her  general  course  had  been  toward  the  south-east.  In 
that  event,  they  were  in  the  Pacific,  and  probably  hun- 
dreds of  miles  from  any  land. 

He  looked  at  the  white  face  of  the  girl,  and  shud- 
dered. How  terrible  that  she  should  die  like  this !  She 
met  his  gaze  with  a  courage  that  he  admired  in  silence. 

"We — we  haven't  got  much  chance,  have  we?"  she 
gasped,  putting  her  mouth  close  to  his  ear,  so  that  her 
words  might  be  audible. 

"While  there's  life,  you  know,"  he  replied,  and  held 
his  breath  as  a  burst  of  wind  and  foam  swept  over  their 
heads. 

He  managed  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  sky  toward  the 
north-west,  as  they  rose  on  the  next  wave.  It  seemed 


146  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

to  him  that  it  was  lighter,  and  that  the  fury  of  the  gale 
had  appreciably  diminished.  This  momentary  encour- 
agement, however,  soon  passed.  Of  what  avail  would  it 
be,  for  the  storm  to  pass  away,  only  to  leave  them  to 
die,  without  food  or  water,  under  the  pitiless  glare  of 
the  tropic  sun?  Indeed,  he  doubted  greatly  whether 
either  of  them  could  last  through  the  night,  storm  or 
no  storm. 

It  had  been  close  to  noon  when  they  were  swept  from 
The  Batavia's  deck,  and  they  had  now  been  in  the  water 
between  three  and  four  hours.  Randall  again  made 
an  observation  of  the  western  sky,  and  this  time  the 
greater  ease  with  which  he  was  able  to  face  the  rush 
of  the  wind  showed  him  beyond  doubt  that  the  storm 
was  waning. 

He  had  no  knowledge  of  typhoons,  but  he  had  heard 
his  companions  on  shipboard  talking  about  them,  the 
preceding  day,  and  he  had  got  an  impression  that  such 
storms  were  not  unlike  cyclones,  sweeping  along  in  a 
well-defined  path,  whirling  furiously  about  a  moving 
center,  and  passing  with  tremendous  rapidity. 

In  that  case,  it  was  not  unlikely,  he  argued,  that  the 
typhoon  had  swept  off  to  the  north-east,  and  that  from 
now  on  the  wind  would  gradually  die  down. 

In  this  supposition  he  was  correct.  Several  hours 
later,  when  it  was,  he  judged,  about  nightfall,  the  force 
of  the  wind  was  distinctly  less,  and 'they  rose  and  fell 
upon  the  enormous  seas  without  encountering  the  blast 
of  foam  and  spray  which  had  before  threatened  to  suf- 
focate them. 

The  waves,   however,   had  not  lessened   in  size   or 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  147 

power.  Randall  realized,  as  he  had  never  realized  be- 
fore, the  tremendous,  the  almost  irresistible,  force  of 
the  ocean.  He  and  his  companion  were  no  more  than 
two  specks  of  dust  upon  its  vast  surface;  their  very 
lightness  and  insignificance,  indeed,  were  what  had  so 
far  preserved  them. 

The  night  fell  very  dark,  and,  as  the  sky  was  still 
obscured  by  the  scudding,  smoking  clouds,  they  were 
almost  unable  to  see  each  other,  or  realize  each  other's 
presence.  Randall  put  out  his  free  hand — he  had  been 
holding  on  to  the  loop  formed  by  his  belt  with  each 
arm  alternately — and  grasped  the  girl's  wrist. 

"Do  you  think  you  can  hold  out  till  morning?"  he 
asked. 

"Yes,"  she  gasped,  rather  weakly;  "I— I  think  so." 

In  spite  of  the  warmth  of  the  water,  they  were  both 
becoming  chilled.  Randall  moved  his  arms  about,  striv- 
ing to  keep  up  the  circulation.  He  urged  the  girl  to 
do  likewise,  but  she  was  apparently  too  weak  to  follow 
his  advice. 

Hour  after  hour  they  tossed  on  the  black  surface  of 
the  sea,  gradually  growing  weaker  as  the  night  wore 
on.  The  wind  had  dropped  to  a  moderate  gale  now, 
but  Randall  had  lost  interest  in  it.  He  felt  that  their 
position  was  a  hopeless  one,  and  that  they  might  just  as 
well  die  now,  in  the  darkness  of  the  night,  as  prolong 
their  suffering  into  the  coming  day. 

From  time  to  time  he  reached  over,  and  felt  for  his 
companion's  hand.  The  faint  pressure  with  which  she 
returned  his  grasp  showed  him  that  she  still  lived.  He 
wished  that  it  were  in  his  power  to  die  that  she  might 


148  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

be  saved.  Alone  there,  in  the  night,  his  heart  went  out 
to  her — he  felt  that  here  was  a  woman  whom  he  might, 
indeed,  have  loved. 

He  was  clutching  the  buoy  with  tired  arms,  scarcely 
conscious  of  the  passage  of  time,  when  suddenly  there 
came  to  his  ears  a  far-off  sullen  roar.  Had  the  storm 
broken  out  again?  He  raised  his  head,  but  could  see 
nothing.  The  sound  rose  and  fell,  above  the  moaning 
of  the  wind,  the  tumult  of  the  ocean.  He  could  not 
understand  it,  yet  he  knew  that,  whatever  it  was,  they 
were  approaching  it  rapidly. 

In  half  an  hour  it  thundered  in  his  ears  like  the 
sound  of  the  firing  of  artillery.  Suddenly,  the  water 
about  him  became  rougher,  more  broken.  He  felt  him- 
self raised  up  by  some  mighty  force  and  swept  irre- 
sistibly forward.  With  his  free  hand,  he  grasped  the 
buoy,  fearing  lest  he  be  torn  away  from  it.  And  then 
he  was  whirled  over  and  over,  in  a  smother  of  foam; 
the  life-buoy  was  wrenched  furiously  from  him,  and  he 
lost  consciousness  in  a  seething  rush  of  waters. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

WHEN  Richard  Randall  awoke  to  consciousness,  lie 
found  himself  lying  on  a  bed  of  hot,  coarse  sand,  with 
the  sun  beating  down  so  fiercely  upon  his  upturned  face 
that  he  blinked  with  pain  when  he  tried  to  open  his 
eyes. 

He  closed  them  again  at  once,  and  with  his  hands 
brushed  aside  the  sand  flies  that  swarmed  about  him, 
stinging  his  face,  his  lips.  A  strange  and  listless  peace, 
born  of  utter  weariness,  possessed  him.  He  threw  his 
arm  about  his  face,  and  once  more  dozed. 

After  a  time  he  woke  again,  tortured  by  a  burning 
thirst.  He  licked  his  dry,  salt-encrusted  lips,  and 
slowly  rose  to  a  sitting  position.  The  hot,  white  bril- 
liance of  the  sunlight  hurt  his  eyes.  Shading  them 
with  one  hand,  he  gazed  curiously  about. 

He  was  sitting  upon  a  rough  and  shell-strewn  beach, 
some  forty  feet  above  the  line  of  the  breakers.  Directly 
before  him  spread  out  the  ocean,  dazzling  blue,  and 
reaching  out  to  the  endless  rim  of  a  hot  and  cloudless 
sky. 

The  beach  swept  away  to  right  and  left  in  long  barren 
curves  of  sand,  along  which  a  fringe  of  brown  and  sun- 
dried  foam,  intermingled  with  seaweed,  pebbles  and 

149 


150  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

shells,  marked  the  furthermost  limits  reached  by  the 
now  receding  breakers. 

The  sea,  still  angry  and  tumultuous,  boiled  in  huge 
masses  over  the  flat  expanse  of  coral  reef  that  guarded 
the  shore,  bursting  into  clouds  of  iridescent  spra*y 
twenty  feet  in  the  air  along  its  outer  edge.  Further 
in-shore,  it  pounded  sullenly  on  the  wet  beach,  as  though 
regretting  its  inability  to  destroy  the  fabric  that  re- 
strained it. 

Randall  rose  uncertainly  to  his  feet,  and  looked  about. 
From  the  position  of  the  sun,  he  judged  it  to  be  about 
eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

His  arms  and  shoulders  ached,  as  did  his  head.  His 
tongue  and  throat  were  dry  and  swollen,  and  his  breath 
seemed  made  of  flames.  Visions  of  cool,  shadowy 
springs,  of  fresh,  tumbling  waters,  flashed  torturingly 
through  his  brain.  The  whole  world  seemed  made  up 
of  glaring,  dazzling  sunlight. 

As  his  mind  became  clearer,  his  thoughts  turned  to 
the  woman  who  had  shared  the  night  and  the  life-buoy 
with  him.  What  had  become  of  her  ? 

Far  off  down  the  beach,  his  eyes,  now  becoming  some- 
what accustomed  to  the  burning  glare  of  the  sun,  fell 
upon  a  smudge  of  white,  brilliant  against  the  yellow 
brown  of  the  shore.  He  set  off  toward  it,  staggering 
weakly  through  the  loose  shifting  sand.  Some  instinct 
drove  him  presently  to  the  firmer  footing  of  the  beach, 
still  wet  from  the  receding  tide.  Here  he  walked  more 
easily,  and  the  moisture  cooled  his  feet. 

In  the  course  of  ten  or  twelve  minutes,  he  reached 
the  object  that  had  attracted  his  attention.  It  was  the1 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  151 

circular  life-buoy,  and  beside  it  lay  the  huddled  figure 
of  the  woman  who  had  been  his  companion  during  the 
tempest-ridden  night. 

She  rested  upon  one  side,  still  bound  to  the  buoy  by 
the  knotted  rope.  Her  lips  were  parted,  her  cheeks 
flushed.  Randall  could  not  at  first  tell,  as  his  gaze  fell 
upon  her,  whether  she  was  alive  or  dead.  Her  eyes 
were  closed,  and  her  brown  hair,  freed  from  its  fasten- 
ings, lay  in  a  cloud  about  her  head. 

He  fell  upon  his  knees,  and  grasped  her  wrist.  To  his 
joy,  her  heart  still  beat,  but  its  pulsations  were  faint 
and  irregular. 

The  heat  of  the  sun  had  burnt  her  face  cruelly. 
Randall  loosened  the  rope  which  still  fastened  the  girl 
to  the  life-buoy,  put  his  arms  about  her,  and  strove  to 
raise  her  from  the  sand.  In  the  rear  of  the  beach  was 
a  fringe  of  low  trees.  He  felt  tnat  he  must  get  her  into 
their  shade. 

He  soon  found  that,  in  his  weakened  condition,  he 
was  unable  to  carry  the  girl  in  his  arms.  The  mere 
effort  of  raising  her  body  from  the  sand  exhausted  him. 
He  was  forced  to  let  her  slip  gently  back  to  her  former 
position. 

For  a  moment  Randall  gazed  about  him,  uncertain 
what  to  do.  Then  he  staggered  up  the  beach,  toward 
the  fringe  of  trees  and  underbrush  that  bordered  it, 
and  presently  returned  with  a  few  branches,  with  broad 
fan-shaped  leaves,  which  he  stuck  in  the  sand  about  the 
girl's  head.  The  device  afforded  her  some  shelter  from 
the  sun.  This  done,  he  started  off  to  look  for  water. 


152  A  LOST  PAEADISE. 

He  felt  that,  if  he  did  not  soon  have  something  to  allay 
his  thirst,  he  would  go  mad. 

The  shore  ascended  rather  sharply  toward  the  line 
of  underbrush.  Randall  made  his  way  up  the  eight  or 
ten  feet  of  declivity  that  separated  the  beach  proper 
from  the  grassy  plateau  beyond.  In  a  few  moments  he 
found  himself  in  a  sparse  grove  of  low-drooping  bushes, 
which  resembled  the  Japanese  umbrella  trees  he  had 
seen  occasionally  at  home.  Beyond  them  stretched  a 
series  of  sand  dunes,  covered  with  a  variety  of  flower- 
ing trees  and  shrubs,  none  of  which  he  knew.  At  the 
further  edge  of  the  dunes  a  thick  tropical  forest  blocked 
his  view. 

He  made  his  way  as  rapidly  as  possible  over  the 
rough  ground,  looking  everywhere  for  some  sign  of 
water,  but  only  the  coarse  grass  that  covered  the  ridges 
of  sand  met  his  eyes.  At  length  he  reached  the  edge 
of  the  forest.  Looking  back,  he  judged  that  he  had 
come  nearly  half  a  mile. 

The  thought  of  leaving  the  girl  alone  for  so  long 
jp,  time  worried  him.  She  was  clearly  very  weak,  and 
in  need  of  immediate  care.  He  plunged  boldly  into  the 
thick  underbrush  that  lined  the  edge  of  the  forest. 

The  ground  here  rose  abruptly  for  perhaps  fifty 
yards,  and  then  sloped  off  into  a  little  valley.  Randall 
forced  his  way  through  a  tangle  of  ferns,  creeping  vines 
and  fallen  trees,  and  at  length  reached  a  somewhat 
clearer  space  at  the  top  of  the  rise.  To  his  delight,  he 
saw  a  tiny  stream,  meandering  in  a  listless  fashion 
through  masses  of  underbrush  and  ferns  at  the  bottom. 
*.  He  fairly  tore  down  the  slope,  and  flinging  himself 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  153 

flat  on  the  ground,  buried  his  face  in  the  surface  of  a 
little  pool,  and  drank  deeply.  The  water  was  sweet 
and  clear,  with  a  faint  "woody"  taste,  and  surprisingly 
cool.  Randall  prepared  to  take  a  supply  to  his  com- 
panion, then  suddenly  realized  that  he  had  no  means 
for  carrying  it. 

He  looked  about,  but  saw  nothing  that  suggested  a 
solution  of  the  difficulty.  He  reproached  himself  for 
not  having  brought  a  shell  with  him  from  the  beach — 
he  had  noticed  a  number  on  the  sand  that  would  have 
held  a  pint  or  more. 

At  length  he  picked  a  broad  spear-shaped  leaf,  and, 
twisting  up  the  two  ends,  managed  to  make  a  sort  of 
cup,  in  which  he  could  carry  a  quart  of  water. 

With  this  he  started  back,  careful  of  his  steps,  to 
avoid  spilling  its  contents.  As  he  was  about  to  ascend 
the  slope  that  led  up  from  the  stream,  it  suddenly  oc- 
curred to  him  that  the  latter  in  all  probability  flowed 
toward  the  beach,  in  which  event,  by  following  it,  he 
would  find  a  much  smoother  and  easier  road  back. 

He  made  his  way  slowly  through  the  underbrush, 
and  in  the  course  of  a  hundred  yards  reached  a  little 
inlet,  or  cove,  into  which  the  stream  emptied. 

Here  he  regained  the  beach,  and  in  ten  minutes  more 
had  returned  along  the  hard  wet  sand  to  the  point  where 
the  girl  lay. 

She  was  still  unconscious,  although  it  seemed  to  Ran- 
dall that  her  breathing  was  somewhat  more  regular. 
He  could  not  make  use  of  either  of  his  hands,  as  both 
were  needed  to  hold  his  improvised  cup;  there  seemed 
nothing,  therefore,  to  do  but  dash  the  water  into  her 


154  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

face.  This  he  did,  and  watched  eagerly  for  some  sign 
of  returning  consciousness,  but  none  was  apparent. 

Randall  became  alarmed.  The  girl  was  lying  on  her 
side,  with  her  face  pillowed  on  one  arm.  He  raised 
her  head,  and  was  horrified  to  find  the  under  side  of 
it  covered  with  blood,  which  had  oozed  from  a  deep 
cut  over  the  temple.  Her  burning  skin  seemed  to  in- 
dicate that  she  was  suffering  from  a  fever. 

Clearly  the  girl  must  be  got  off  the  beach,  and  into 
the  shade.  He  was  on  the  point  of  making  another 
attempt  to  carry  her,  when  she  slowly  opened  her  eyes, 
and  gazed  up  at  him  with  a  half -frightened  expression. 

Randall  smiled  down  at  her. 

"I'm  so  glad  you've  come  to  at  last,"  he  said.  "You 
must  get  out  of  this  fearful  sun  at  once." 

She  continued  to  gaze  at  him  uncertainly,  with  a 
puzzled  frown. 

"Who  are  you?"  she  asked.  In  her  eyes  there  was 
no  sign  of  recognition. 

"I  was  with  you,  last  night — after  we  were  swept 
overboard,  during  the  typhoon.  Don't  you  remember  ?" 

She  shook  her  head,  with  a  look  of  grave  wonder. 
"I  don't  seem  to  remember  anything  at  all,"  she  replied. 

Randall  concluded  that  she  was  weak  and  perhaps 
a  little  delirious,  as  well,  from  her  wound  and  the  fever. 
He  knelt  down,  and,  after  removing  the  branches  he 
had  placed  about  her  head,  put  his  arm  around  her. 

"Do  you  think  you  can  walk?" 

The  girl  sat  up,  and  pressed  her  hand  to  her  temple. 

"I'm  frightfully  dizzy,"   she   said,   "and  my  head 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  155 

hurts."    She  took  away  her  hand,  and  stared  stupidly 
at  the  blood  that  covered  it. 

"You  must  have  struck  against  the  reef,  as  you  were 
washed  ashore,  or  else  against  a  piece  of  driftwood. 
Don't  you  remember?" 

Again  she  shook  her  head. 

"I  don't  remember  anything,"  she  repeated,  with  a 
dazed  look. 

Randall  gently  assisted  the  girl  to  her  feet.  Then, 
supporting  her  carefully,  he  started  along  the  beach  in 
the  direction  of  the  little  inlet,  from  which  he  had  just 
come. 

"I'm  so  thirsty!"  the  girl  moaned.     "I'm  burning." 

"There's  water  just  down  there."  Randall  pointed  to 
the  clump  of  trees  that  marked  the  entrance  to  the  little 
cove.  "We'll  be  there  in  just  a  few  minutes  now." 

The  distance  was  scarcely  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  but  it 
seemed  to  Randall  that  they  were  hours  in  covering  it. 
At  last,  however,  they  reached  the  inlet,  and,  leaving 
the  hot  glare  of  the  beach,  turned  into  the  shade  of  a 
large  tree  that  stood  just  at  the  mouth  of  the  stream. 
Here  Randall  placed  the  girl  upon  a  stretch  of  coarse 
grass,  with  her  back  against  the  trunk  of  the  tree,  and, 
hastily  securing  a  shell  from  the  beach,  brought  her 
some  water. 

He  was  forced  to  repeat  the  operation  several  times 
before  her  thirst  was  quenched. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said  at  length,  in  a  peculiarly 
sweet  contralto  voice.  "You  are  very  good." 

Randall  tore  a  bit  of  cloth  from  her  dress,  and  soaked 
it  in  the  stream. 


156  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

<rYou  must  let  me  wash  your  cut  for  you,"  he  said. 

She  thanked  with  a  smile.  When  he  had  at  length 
managed  to  remove  the  sand  and  bits  of  shell,  which, 
with  her  hair,  were  matted  into  the  wound,  he  saw  that 
it  was  not  so  serious  as  he  had  at  first  supposed. 

A  shallow  gash  some  two  inches  long,  over  her  left 
temple,  it  appeared,  both  from  its  torn  and  uneven 
edges  and  from  the  mass  of  bruises  that  surrounded  it, 
to  have  been  made  by  a  heavy  rounded  object,  such  as 
a  piece  of  floating  driftwood,  rather  than  by  the  sharp 
and  rigid  projections  of  the  coral  reef. 

When  he  had  cleaned  the  wound,  Randall  bound  the 
wet  bit  of  cloth  about  the  girl's  head. 

"Are  you  hungry?"  he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No.     I  don't  feel  very  well,  yet." 

He  improvised  a  pillow  with  some  fallen  leaves. 

"You  lie  down  here,  for  a  while,"  he  said,  "and 
sleep,  while  I  have  a  look  about.  We've  got  to  have 
something  to  eat,  before  we  can  go  on  much  farther." 
He  eased  her  head  back  until  it  rested  comfortably  upon 
the  leaves. 

She  gave  him  a  smile  of  gratitude. 

"Thank  you  so  much,"  she  said,  and  closed  her  eyes. 

Although  Randall's  few  months  on  shipboard  had 
given  him  a  working  knowledge  of  life  upon  a  tramp 
steamer,  it  fad  taught  him  nothing  of  existence  in  the 
tropics.  He  was  as  much  at  a  loss  amidst  this  un- 
familiar foliage  as  he  would  have  been  in  the  wilds  of 
Africa.  He  turned  to  the  beach,  as  most  likely  to  afford 
some  means  of  subsistence. 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  157 

In  the  tiny  bay  into  which,  the  stream  trickled,  he 
saw  many  bright-colored  fish  darting  about  in  the  hot 
shallow  water,  but  had  no  means  at  hand  whereby  he 
could  capture  any  of  them.  He  walked  down  toward 
the  line  of  the  breakers,  and  was  amazed  to  find  how 
greatly  they  had  receded.  The  tide  had  been  falling 
since  morning,  and  a  broad  expanse  of  reef  lay  between 
him  and  the  surf.  It  was  filled  with  shallow  pools, 
separated  by  stretches  of  sand  and  slime,  above  which 
projected  here  and  there  brownish-yellow  knobs  of  coral, 
and  masses  of  sponge  and  sea  anemone. 

He  walked  out  over  the  reef,  picking  his  way  cau- 
tiously to  avoid  slipping  on  its  wet  and  muddy  surface. 
In  some  of  the  shallows  he  saw  starfish,  and  hundreds 
of  mollusks  adhering  to  the  coral  formation.  Some  of 
these  had  the  appearance  of  oysters.  He  broke  one  off, 
opened  it  with  his  clasp-knife,  and  ate  it.  It  was  an 
oyster  of  some  sort,  he  decided,  and  tasted  extremely 
good.  He  managed  to  gather  about  two  dozen,  alto- 
gether, and,  removing  his  coarse  flannel  shirt,  placed 
them  in  it,  and  made  his  way  back  to  land. 

His  companion  was  sleeping  when  he  rejoined  her. 
He  placed  half  of  the  oysters  in  a  shallow  pool  near  the 
base  of  the  large  tree,  and  then  proceeded  to  eat  the 
remainder  with  great  gusto.  Earely  had  any  food  ever 
tasted  so  good  to  him.  He  felt  invigorated,  and  with 
his  returning  strength  came  a  full  realization  of  the 
desperate  condition  that  confronted  them. 

Whether  they  had  been  cast  upon  the  mainland,  or 
upon  one  of  the  innumerable  coral  islands  that  dot  this 
part  of  the  Pacific,  it  would  be  impossible  to  determine 


158  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

until  the  girl  was  sufficiently  recovered  to  be  able  to 
travel;  just  now,  the  only  thing  to  do  was  to  provide 
for  her  welfare  and  comfort  until  she  should  have  re- 
gained her  strength. 

The  most  necessary  thing,  now  that  the  question  of 
food  and  water  was  for  the  moment  solved,  was  clearly 
some  sort  of  shelter.  He  cast  about  him  to  see  what 
he  might  provide. 

The  sole  implement  that  he  possessed  was  a  heavy 
clasp-knife,  which  he  wore,  sailor-fashion,  upon  a  lan- 
yard. To  this  fact,  no  doubt,  he  owed  its  preservation. 
It  possessed  a  stout  blade,  some  four  inches  long,  but 
while  it  would  serve  to  cut  down  saplings  up  to  an  inch 
or  two  in  diameter,  he  could  not  hope  to  do  much  with 
it  in  the  construction  of  even  the  rudest  sort  of  hut. 

The  shore,  from  the  head  of  the  little  bay,  sloped 
sharply  upward,  forming  a  bluff  some  twenty  or  more 
feet  high,  sparsely  covered  with  trees.  A  ravine,  at  the 
bottom  of  which  ran  the  little  stream,  divided  the  bluff 
into  two  parts. 

Eandall  ascended  the  left-hand  slope,  and  in  a  few 
moments  reached  the  top.  A  grove  of  small  trees  ex- 
tended back  a  hundred  feet  or  more,  gradually  merging 
into  the  jungle.  The  ground  beneath  these  trees  was 
sandy,  and  covered  with  sparse  brownish-yellow  grass. 

In  this  grove,  just  at  the  edge  of  the  bluff,  he  deter- 
mined to  make  their  camp.  It  was  -close  to  the  sea,  so 
that  any  passing  vessel  might  readily  be  observed,  and 
a  supply  of  water  was  near  at  hand.  Then,  too,  the 
condition  of  his  companion  made  it  impossible  for  him 
to  go  very  far  from  their  present  location. 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  159 

Two  of  the  trees,  each  about  a  foot  in  diameter,  stood, 
he  observed,  some  ten  feet  apart,  with  a  clear  space 
between.  Each  had  projecting  limbs,  at  about  the 
height  of  his  head  from  the  ground.  He  went  back 
along  the  edge  of  the  ravine,  toward  the  forest,  and 
presently  found  what  he  was  looking  for — a  long  dead 
limb  which  had  fallen  to  the  ground  from  one  of  the 
many  trees. 

It  was  fairly  straight,  and  strong.  He  managed  to 
break  off  the  smaller  branches  that  projected  from  it, 
and  carried  the  limb  itself  back  to  the  site  of  the  camp. 
Here  he  placed  it  in  the  crotches  formed  by  the  pro- 
jecting lower  limbs  of  the  two  trees  he  had  selected.  It 
spanned  the  distance  between  them,  and,  being  four  or 
more  inches  in  diameter,  was  amply  strong  to  form  the 
ridge-pole  of  his  hut. 

This  much  done,  he  was  at  a  loss  how  to  proceed  fur- 
ther. At  length  he  decided  to  hunt  up  more  fallen 
branches,  until  he  had  secured  enough  of  good  size  to 
lean  against  the  ridge-pole  from  the  ground  on  either 
side,  in  the  shape  of  the  letter  A. 

It  was  slow  work.  The  branches  were  plentiful 
enough,  but  they  were  heavy  to  carry,  and  the  breaking 
off  of  the  smaller  limbs  was  tedious  and  sometimes  diffi- 
cult. In  the  course  of  three  hours'  work  he  had  secured 
enough  only  to  form  one  side.  He  placed  them  as  close 
together  as  they  would  go,  and  designed,  when  this 
rough  framework  was  completed,  to  thatch  it  with  the 
broad  leaves  of  some  of  the  many  varieties  of  palms  that 
he  saw  about  him. 

He  was  hungry  by  this  time,  and,  glancing  over  the 


160  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

edge  of  the  bluff,  he  saw  that  the  girl  was  sitting  up. 
He  went  down  to  her,  and  brought  the  oysters  and  a 
shell  of  water. 

"Do  you  feel  better?"  he  asked. 

"Yes ;  much  better."  Her  smile  was  full  of  gratitude, 
yet  Randall  observed  in  her  face  the  same  puzzled  ex- 
pression that  had  impressed  him  so  forcibly  before. 
"Would  you  mind  telling  me  who  you  are  ?"  she  asked, 
again. 

Randall  informed  her,  explaining  in  a  few  words  the 
way  in  which  he  came  to  be  a  deck-hand  on  The  Ba- 
tavia. 

"And  you  ?"  he  inquired. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"I  do  not  know,"  she  said. 

"You  don't  know?     But  I — I — don't  understand?" 

The  girl  placed  her  hand  gently  upon  the  bandage 
that  covered  her  wound. 

"It  must  have  been  the  blow,"  she  said.  "I  can't 
seem  to  remember  my  name,  or  who  I  am,  or  anything 
at  all  about  the  past.  I  don't  even  remember  the  storm, 
or  being  washed  overboard.  Everything  seems  to  begin 
with  the  moment  when  I  woke  up  this  morning,  and 
found  you  looking  at  me." 

Randall  stared  at  her,  momentarily  incredulous ;  but 
the  expression  of  her  eyes  told  him  that  she  spoke  the 
truth.  She  seemed  tired  and  weak.  Her  fever  had 
passed  away,  but  the  pain  from  the  wound  in  her  head 
had  increased. 

"Never  mind  about  it  now,"  he  reassured  her.  "No 
doubt  you  will  remember  everything  in  the  morning. 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  161 

Just  now  you  are  too  ill  to  think  about  it."  He  began 
to  open  the  oysters. 

She  ate  a  few  of  them,  but  did  not  seem  to  enjoy 
them.  Randall  finished  the  others,  and  wished  for 
more.  A  glance  toward  the  sea,  however,  showed  him 
that  the  reef  was  now  covered  by  the  tide.  Clearly  it 
would  not  do  to  depend  upon  such  uncertain  means  of 
subsistence. 

"Have  you  a  hairpin?"  he  asked  the  girl. 

Randall  took  the  hairpin,  bent  it  in  the  form  of  a 
fish-hook,  sharpened  the  point  upon  a  bit  of  stone,  and 
with  the  sharp  blade  of  his  knife  managed  to  form  a 
sort  of  a  barb,  so  that  the  hook  would  at  least  hold  the 
bait.  He  then  cast  about  him  for  a  bit  of  string.  At 
first  he  could  think  of  nothing  that  he  might  utilize  for 
the  purpose,  but  all  at  once  he  remembered  the  life- 
buoy. How  stupid  of  him  to  have  forgotten  it!  He 
left  the  girl,  and  ran  up  the  beach,  hoping  that  the 
flood  tide  had  not  floated  it  away. 

It  was  still  there,  and  he  ran  back  with  it  at  once. 
The  girl,  reclining  against  the  tree,  watched  him,  smil- 
ing interestedly. 

He  removed  the  bit  of  rope,  which  proved  to  be 
about  ten  feet  long,  and  began  to  untwist  the  strands. 
It  was  slow  work,  and  the  sun  was  close  to  the  horizon 
when  he  at  last  found  himself  in  possession  of  a  clumsy 
line,  some  ten  feet  long,  and  about  the  thickness  of  a 
match  stick.  He  attached  his  hook,  baited  it  with  a 
bit  of  one  of  the  oysters  that  still  remained  in  the  shell, 
and,  with  a  sapling  for  a  rod,  cast  the  tackle  into  the 
water  of  the  little  estuary  at  the  mouth  of  the  creek. 


162  A  LOST  PAEADISE. 

His  efforts  were  almost  immediately  rewarded.  In 
less  than  five  minutes  he  had  landed  a  fish  of  some 
three  or  four  pounds,  which  he  took  to  be  a  variety  of 
sea  trout.  It  was  only  by  sweeping  upward  with  his 
rod  the  moment  the  fish  seized  the  bait  that  he  landed 
him,  however,  and  he  at  once  flopped  off  the  hook  and 
almost  succeeded  in  regaining  the  water  before  Randall 
caught  him  in  his  hands. 

He  was  as  proud  of  his  catch  as  a  school-boy. 

"Now  we  shall  have  a  feast,"  he  cried,  laughing,  and 
began  to  clean  his  prize. 

"But  how  are  you  going  to  cook  it?"  the  girl  asked, 
presently. 

BandalPs  enthusiasm  suffered  a  momentary  set-back. 
He  had  quite  forgotten  that  they  had  no  fire.  A  search 
of  his  pockets  revealed  no  matches — had  they,  indeed, 
contained  any,  their  soaking  in  the  ocean  for  twelve  or 
more  hours  would  have  rendered  them  useless. 

He  hung  the  fish  from  a  branch  of  the  tree,  and  sat 
down,  hungry  and  disappointed. 

"Perhaps  to-morrow,"  he  said,  "I  can  find  a  bit  of 
flint,  and  strike  fire  with  the  blade  of  my  knife.  It's 
too  late,  to-night.  .  .  .  See,  there's  the  moon." 

He  pointed  to  the  horizon,  over  which  the  moon, 
nearly  full,  was  rising  like  an  immense  red  Japanese 
lantern. 

"Isn't  it  beautiful !"  his  companion  remarked.  "I've 
never  seen  the  moon  look  so  large.  And  the  stars ! 
how  bright  and  how  strangely  near  they  seem!  Oh, 
look!"  A  brilliant  metorite  flashed  across  the  zenith. 
"I've  made  a  wish." 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  163 

"What  is  it  ?"  he  laughed. 

"Oh,  I  can't  tell  you.  It  wouldn't  come  true  if  I 
did." 

"I'm  sorry  I  couldn't  get  the  house  done,"  said  Ran- 
dall, glancing  ruefully  at  the  crazy  structure  on  the 
bluff  above.  "I'll  finish  it  to-morrow  though.  To-night 
you'll  have  to  sleep  on  the  ground,  I'm  afraid." 

"I  sha'n't  mind  a  bit,"  she  said.  "The  sand  is  soft 
and  warm,  and  with  these  soft  leaves  for  a  pillow  I'll 
do  nicely.  But  what  about  you  ?" 

"I'm  going  to  keep  watch,"  he  replied. 

"And  not  sleep?" 

"Not  just  yet,  anyway,"  he  said,  and  rose.  "You'd 
better  turn  in  now.  I'll  get  you  some  water  first." 

He  brought  the  shell  of  water  to  her,  and  wet  the 
bandage  about  her  head  to  ease  its  throbbing. 

"Good-night,"  he  said,  when  she  was  comfortable. 
"I'll  sit  here  by  the  tree,  and  watch  the  moon  rise." 

Before  the  moon  had  climbed  half-way  up  the  sky, 
Randall,  as  well  as  his  companion,  was  sleeping 
soundly.  The  fatigue  caused  by  the  experience  of  the 
previous  night  and  the  labor  of  the  day  closed  his  eyes 
in  spite  of  his  determination  to  keep  guard.  The 
beach  lay  white  under  the  moonlight,  and  the  only 
sound  that  broke  the  silence  was  the  dull  roar  of  the 
sea  as  it  fell  in  shimmering  silvery  cascades  along  the 
reef. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  sun  was  just  turning  the  surface  of  the  sea 
to  molten  gold  when  Randall  awoke.  He  shivered  a 
little,  in  the  early  morning  mist,  and,  turning, 
glanced  at  his  companion. 

She  was  still  sleeping  soundly,  and  he  thought  that 
she  looked  very  lovely,  as  she  lay  with  her  head  on 
one  arm,  her  lips  slightly  parted,  breathing  softly, 
like  a  child. 

Her  hair,  in  tumbled  masses,  almost  hid  the  bandage 
about  her  head,  and  the  clinging  pongee  dress  out- 
lined her  graceful  figure  in  white  against  the  darker 
background  of  the  sand,  in  a  way  that  suggested  a 
statue  in  soft-tinted  marble. 

Randall  rose  very  quietly,  so  as  not  to  disturb  her, 
and,  going  to  the  beach,  threw  off  his  clothes,  and 
plunged  in.  The  water  was  delightfully  warm,  and 
the  bath  freshened  and  invigorated  him.  Resuming 
his  clothes,  he  strolled  along  the  beach,  searching  care- 
fully for  a  piece  of  flint. 

He  found  numbers  of  bits  of  pebble  that  resembled 
it,  but  none  of  them  seemed  sufficiently  hard  to  strike 
fire  from  the  back  of  his  knife  blade.  At  last,  how- 
ever, with  a  fragment  of  glossy  black  stone,  about  the 
size  of  his  two  fingers,  he  succeeded  in  producing 

164 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  165 

a  shower  of  tiny  sparks.  He  did  not  know  whether 
it  was  flint,  or  not,  but,  whatever  it  was,  it  seemed  to 
promise  a  fried  fish  for  breakfast,  and  in  his  famished 
condition  that  was  the  most  important  consideration. 

He  came  back  to  the  "camp,"  as  he  designated  their 
friendly  tree,  and  found  that  his  companion  had 
already  got  up,  and  was  bathing  her  wound  in  the 
water  of  the  little  stream. 

"Good-morning,"  he  shouted,  gaily.  "How  would 
you  like  some  fried  fish  for  breakfast  ?" 

"I'm  terribly  hungry,"  she  laughed,  "but  the  fish 
is  gone." 

Randall  glanced  toward  the  limb  upon  which  he 
had  hung  his  catch  of  the  night  before.  "Some  early 
bird,  I  suppose,"  he  said,  smiling.  "I'll  catch 
another." 

This  was  easier  said  than  done,  for  he  found  that 
he  had  no  bait.  He  was  too  hungry,  however,  to  wait 
for  the  falling  tide  to  supply  them  with  oysters,  so 
he  began  to  search  along  the  sides  of  the  stream  for 
something  with  which  to  bait  his  hook. 

A  large  earth-worm  finally  rewarded  his  efforts. 
His  bait,  however,  refused  to  sink  until  he  had  tied 
a  bit  of  stone  to  the  line.  Again  luck  was  with  him, 
and  another  fish  soon  lay  upon  the  shore,  larger,  if 
anything,  than  the  one  he  had  caught  the  night 
before. 

"Xow  for  the  fire,"  he  announced  laughingly,  and 
began  to  collect  some  bits  of  dried  moss  leaves  and 
small  twigs. 

When  Randall  finally  succeeded  in  lighting  his  fire, 


166  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

he  felt  a  profounder  respect  for  the  past  generations, 
to  whom  the  match  was  an  unknown  quantity,  than  he 
had  ever  felt  before.  It  took  him  over  an  hour.  The 
little  showers  of  sparks  fell  upon  the  bits  of  moss 
only  to  vanish  completely;  he  worked  until  his  arm 
was  sore  without  causing  it  to  ignite.  It  was  only 
when  he  substituted  some  soft  crumbling  punk  from 
the  interior  of  a  decaying  log  that  success  finally 
rewarded  his  efforts,  and  even  then  it  looked  for  a 
time  as  though  he  would  be  obliged  to  eat  his  break- 
fast raw.  He  took  the  precaution,  when  his  fire  was 
once  fairly  alight,  to  scorch  the  linen  of  a  handker- 
chief, which  his  companion  produced  from  her  dress, 
thus  providing  a  more  practical  tinder  for  future  use. 

Their  breakfast  was  almost  a  joyous  one,  in  spite 
of  their  predicament.  The  girl  apparently  felt  much 
better,  and  the  wound  in  her  head  was  healing  fast. 
Eandall  broiled  the  fish  over  the  hot  coals,  holding  it 
upon  a  forked  stick,  and  two  broad  green  leaves  served 
them  as  plates.  Both  ate  ravenously,  and  were  sorry 
when  the  last  morsel  had  been  consumed. 

"No  dishes  to  wash,  anyway,"  he  laughed,  as  he 
rose  and  went  for  more  water. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  next?"  the  girl  asked, 
smiling  at  him. 

Randall  glanced  at  the  fire,  and  threw  on  some  sticks 
of  wood. 

"First,  I  think  I'll  fix  my  fish-hook,"  he  said,  "and 
then  I'm  going  to  finish  our  house." 

He  detached  the  bit  of  bent  hairpin  from  the  line, 
and  thrust  the  point  of  it  into  the  fire.  "I'm  going 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  167 

to  hammer  the  point  out  flat,"  he  said,  "and  see  if 
I  can't  make  some  sort  of  a  barb  on  it." 

The  girl  watched  him  in  silence  as  he  beat  the  red- 
hot  end  of  the  hairpin  between  two  stones. 

"I  think  I  shall  call  you  Richard,"  she  presently 
announced,  gravely  serious. 

Randall  looked  up  quickly. 

"I  wish  you  would,"  he  said.  "  'Mr.  Randall' 
would  seem  absurd  under  the  circumstances.  And 
what  shall  I  call  you?" 

"I — I'm  afraid,"  replied  his  companion,  with  the 
same  puzzled  frown  about  her  eyes,  "that  you'll  have 
to  name  me  yourself.  I  can't  be  of  any  assistance 
in  the  matter — not  so  far,  at  least." 

"You  don't  remember  anything  about  the  past — any- 
thing at  all  ?" 

She  shook  her  head  with  a  rueful  smile. 

"I've  tried  very  hard,  but  I  can't.  After  all,  per- 
haps it  doesn't  matter  so  much,  now.  I  am  here,  and 
alive,  and  well,  and  it  is  to-day  and  to-morrow  that  I 
must  live — not  yesterday.  I  am  going  to  try  to  for- 
get all  about  it." 

"I  think,"  said  Randall,  after  a  time,  "that  I  shall 
call  you  Eve." 

The  girl  blushed  slightly,  but  met  his  boyish  smile 
with  an  answering  one. 

"Very  well,"  she  said.  "It  is  a  short  name,  and 
I  rather  like  it.  And  I  want  to  be  your  companion, 
really,  now  that  we  are  here  together.  I  mean  that 
I  want  to  do  my  share  of  the  work,  and  help  in  every 


168  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

way  that  I  can.  I  don't  intend  to  sit  here  and  be 
waited  on." 

Randall  finished  work  upon  his  fish-hook,  and  cooled 
it  suddenly  in  the  water. 

"Look,"  he  cried,  extending  it  to  her.  "I've  made 
a  fairly  good  barb,  don't  you  think?  Now  I'll  polish 
it  up  a  little."  He  began  to  sharpen  the  point  of 
the  hook  on  a  bit  of  stone.  "This  thing  is  important. 
Without  it,  we  might  starve,  you  know." 

"Do  you  think  you  could  make  me  a  needle?"  the 
girl  asked. 

"A  needle?" 

"Yes.  I  want  to  do  a  little  sewing."  She  laughed 
merrily  and  gave  him  the  two  remaining  hairpins. 
"You'd  better  keep  these.  I  sha'n't  need  them  any 
more."  She  indicated  the  two  long  plaits  into  which 
she  had  twisted  her  hair. 

Randall  broke  one  of  the  hairpins  in  two,  flattened 
out  the  end  of  one  of  the  pieces,  and  with  the  point 
of  his  knife  managed  to  pierce  it  with  a  tiny  hole. 
Then  he  ground  the  other  end  to  a  sharp  point,  and 
handed  the  improvised  needle  back  to  her.  She  was 
already  busy,  separating  some  thin  strands  of  hemp 
from  the  rope  that  had  belonged  to  the  life-buoy. 

"Do  you  think  this  will  do?" 

She  regarded  the  result  of  his  efforts  with  delight. 

"Splendidly.    Now  I  can  fix  everything." 

"I'm  going  to  work  on  the  hut,"  Randall  announced, 
rising.  "If  I  were  you,  I'd  take  a  dip  in  the  ocean. 
I  did,  before  breakfast.  It's  great." 

"I'm  going  to,"  she  said.     "And,  when  I  get  my 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  169 

clothes  fixed,  I'll  come  up  and  help  you.     Will  you 
lend  me  your  knife  for  a  while  ?" 

He  handed  it  to  her. 

"If  you  want  anything,  call  me.  I'll  be  just  over 
the  top  of  the  bluff." 

He  went  back  to  the  building  of  his  hut,  with  a 
somewhat  perturbed  mind.  Of  all  the  astonishing 
things  that  had  happened  to  him,  it  seemed  the  most 
astonishing  that  the  girl  should,  by  reason  of  the  blow 
upon  her  head,  have  lost  all  recollection  of  her 
identity.  He  had  often  read  of  such  cases,  and  knew 
that  they  were  by  no  means  rare;  now  that  he  was 
confronted  by  the  actuality,  it  seemed  hardly  credible. 

Had  he  himself  possessed  any  knowledge  of  the  girl, 
or  of  her  antecedents,  he  might  have  supplied  the  link 
that  was  necessary  to  enable  her  to  bridge  the  mental 
hiatus  caused  by  her  wounds.  As  matters  stood,  how- 
ever, he  knew  nothing  at  all  about  her,  not  even  her 
name. 

That  she  was  a  woman  of  breeding,  of  position, 
his  brief  experience  with  her  prior  to  the  coming  of 
the  typhoon  had  amply  demonstrated.  Now,  by  this 
curious  stroke  of  Fate,  all  her  preconceived  notions 
of  caste  had  been  swept  away,  leaving  her  but  a  woman, 
as  artless  almost,  as  free  from  conventional  barriers, 
as  Eve  herself  might  have  been. 

He  knew  very  well  that,  had  she  not  received  the 
blow  which  had  accomplished  this  astonishing  result, 
she  would  have  continued,  even  in  the  present  state 
of  affairs,  to  regard  him  as  a  common  sailor,  between 
whom  and  herself  must  be  drawn  all  the  lines  of 


170  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

social  difference,  which  she  had  so  strongly  empha- 
sized on  shipboard.  As  it  was,  she  now  placed  her- 
self on  a  plane  of  equality  with  him,  regarding  her- 
self as  his  comrade,  his  partner  in  their  struggle  for 
existence. 

In  a  way  Randall  was  glad  of  it,  yet  he  wondered 
what  would  result,  should  her  memory  of  the  past 
suddenly  flash  back  upon  her,  to  destroy  the  delight- 
ful camaraderie  which  had  so  far  distinguished  their 
relations.  Up  to  now,  their  desperate  situation  had 
seemed  almost  a  pleasant  adventure  to  him,  a  delight- 
ful return  to  the  natural  out-door  life  which  seemed 
almost  heaven-sent,  after  the  bitter  experiences  of  his 
recent  trials  in  New  York.  He  set  about  the  finish- 
ing of  the  hut  with  a  light  heart. 

Three  hours  of  steady  work  sufficed  to  complete 
the  rough  framework.  From  the  high  ridge-pole  there 
extended  to  the  ground,  on  either  side,  a  close  row 
of  smaller  poles,  making  a  sort  of  tent,  the  base  of 
which  was  some  eight  feet  across.  Thin,  strong  vines, 
which  he  found  everywhere  in  the  forest,  served  to 
secure  the  tops  of  the  poles  to  the  ridge-pole.  This 
done,  he  felt  that  the  framework,  at  least,  was  secure. 
The  greater  problem  of  thatching  it,  so  as  to  exclude 
the  rain,  now  presented  itself. 

Beneath  some  of  the  palm-like  trees  in  the  forest 
he  found  great  masses  of  dead  leaves,  not  unlike  the 
familiar  palm-leaf  fans.  A  fallen  tree,  victim  of 
some  tropic  storm,  provided  a-n  unlimited  supply  of 
these,  not  more  than  a  hundred  yards  from  where  he 
was  working.  By  covering  the  sides  of  the  hut  with 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  171 

these  leaves,  he  felt  that  he  could  make  a  wall  which 
would  provide  some  shelter,  at  least,  in  case  of  rain. 
He  broke  off  and  carried  to  the  hut  several  hundred 
of  them,  and  then  bethought  himself  of  dinner. 

A  glance  over  the  edge  of  the  bluff  showed  him 
that  his  companion  was  not  there.  Far  down  the 
beach  he  presently  espied  her,  coming  toward  the 
camp.  He  descended  the  bluff,  and  once  more  began 
his  fishing  operations. 

^"he  newly  barbed  hook  proved  a  great  success.  By 
the  time  the  girl  arrived  at  the  camp,  he  had  caught 
two  fish  of  moderate  size  and  of  the  same  variety 
as  those  that  had  before  rewarded  his  efforts.  The 
little  bay  seemed  swarming  with  them;  he  could  see 
their  silver  and  gray  bodies  flashing  everywhere  over 
the  yellow  sands. 

He  turned  as  his  companion  came  up  to  him,  and 
the  novelty  of  her  appearance  caused  him  to  start 
back  in  surprise.  She  seemed  painfully  self-conscious 
and  awkward,  and  faced  him  with  a  diffident  smile. 

"Don't  you  think  it  much  more  sensible  ?"  she  said. 
"Now  I  can  help  you  work." 

She  had  cut  off  the  lower  portion  of  her  skirt,  until 
now  it  came  only  to  her  knees,  and  with  strips  taken 
from  the  part  she  removed,  she  had  wound  her  legs, 
below  the  knee,  as  though  with  puttees.  Her  thin 
pongee  coat  she  had  discarded  altogether,  and  from 
the  free  and  graceful  movements  of  her  body  Eandall 
could  see  that  her  corsets  had  shared  the  same  fate. 
In  her  linen  shirtwaist,  short  skirt  and  puttees,  she 
looked  very  trim  and  capable.  Randall  returned  her 


172  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

inquiring  smile.  She  seemed  desirous  of  his  approval, 
and  he  gave  it  without  stint. 

"Much  more  sensible,"  he  said,  gravely.  "The  put- 
tees will  protect  you  from  the  brambles  and  under- 
brush, and  certainly  in  this  weather,  you  don't  need 
a  coat,  or  much  of  anything,  in  fact,  to  keep  you  warm. 
Did  you  have  a  swim  ?" 

"Oh,  yes — it  was  splendid !  And  I  found  these 
among  some  rocks  along  the  shore."  She  exhibited 
proudly  two  .large  pinkish  eggs. 

Eandall  took  them.  "I  wonder  what  they  are?" 
he  remarked.  "At  any  rate,  we'll  try  them.  How 
would  you  like  them  cooked  ?"  He  stirred  up  the 
embers  of  the  fire,  and,  adding  some  dried  leaves  and 
twigs,  soon  brought  it  to  a  blaze. 

"Do  you  think  you  could  boil  them  ?"  she  laughed. 
"I  confess  I  don't  see  how." 

Randall  took  up  the  large,  thick  shell  which  they 
had  been  using  as  a  drinking  cup,  placed  the  eggs  in 
it,  filled  it  with  water,  and  set  it  between  two  stones. 
Then  he  poked  some  blazing  embers  under  it.  "I 
guess  that  will  do  it,"  he  remarked.  "Now,  if  you'll 
let  me  have  my  knife,  I'll  get  these  fish  ready." 

"We  won't  be  able  to  live  on  fish  forever,"  he 
laughed,  as  he  began  to  cook  them.  "There  ought  to 
be  fruit  in  the  forest  and  I've  seen  a  lot  of  birds — 
some  that  looked  like  small  chickens,  scampering 
through  the  underbrush.  They  were  not  very  wild, 
either.  I  believe  I  could  have  killed  one  with 
a  stone." 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  173 

"If  you  will  make  me  a  bow  and  some  arrows," 
she  remarked,  "I'll  see  what  I  can  do." 
"Do  you  know  how  to  use  them  ?" 
"Yes— I— I—"       She    trailed    off,    confused,     as 
though  some  vagrant  strand  of  memory  had  eluded  her. 
Randall  knew  that  English  girls  were  often  experts 
at  archery. 

"I'll  make  you  one,  as  soon  as  I've  finished  the 
house,"  he  said.     "Do  you  want  to  come  up  and  help  ? 
I'm  trying  to  thatch  it  with  palm-leaf  fans." 
She  joined  in  his  laugh. 

"I  fancy  the  eggs  are  done,"  she  said.     "Shall  I 
see?" 
'"Please." 

They  were  done,  and  extremely  good. 
"Eggs,  oysters,  fish.     We  are  living  like  epicures," 
said  Randall,  laughing.     "Do  you  know  I  rather  like 
this?     Don't  you?" 

"Yes;  more  than  I  can  possibly  tell  you.  I  feel 
in  some  queer  way  as  though  I  had  been  suddenly 
liberated — as  though  I  had  escaped  from  prison." 
She  drew  in  a  deep  breath  of  the  salt-laden  air.  "This 
all  seems  so  vital,  so  real!  I  love  it.  I  am  not  at 
all  sure  that  I  care  about  being  rescued — at  least, 
not  right  away." 

"Neither  do  I,"  Randall  returned.  "I'm  happier 
than  I've  been  in  a  long  time."  His  meaning  tone, 
the  look  he  flashed  at  her,  brought  the  color  to  her 
cheeks. 

"It  is  splendid,  isn't  it  ?"  she  said,  "to  feel  so  well, 
to  be  so  hungry,  to  feel  much  a  sense  of  peace!" 


174  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

They  had  loitered  over  their  meal,  and  it  was  now 
long  ppst  noon.  Under  the  shelter  of  the  tree  the 
air  was  pleasant,  in  spite  of  the  heat.  Even  the 
numberless  noisy  inhabitants  of  the  jungle  seemed 
sleeping.  A  strange  and  noticeable  silence  wrapped 
them  about.  Along  the  beach  the  tide  was  far  out,  and 
over  the  white  surface  of  the  sand  the  heat  waves 
danced  in  riotous  whirls. 

Randall  leaned  back  against  the  tree,  and  closed 
his  eyes. 

"Peace,"  he  exclaimed.  "Sometimes,  when  I  think 
of  how  people  struggle  and  toil,  and  wear  themselves 
out  in  the  madness  we  call  civilization,  it  seems  almost 
absurd,  when  there  is  so  much  beauty,  so  much  peace, 
in  the  heart  of  nature." 

The  girl  had  flung  herself  carelessly  upon  the  sand, 
her  head  pillowed  on  one  arm. 

"I  think  I  shall  go  to  sleep,"  she  said,  smiling; 
"just  for  an  hour.  Then  we'll  go  to  work."  she  closed 
her  eyes,  and  was  soon  sleeping  like  a  tired  child. 

Randall  watched  her,  and  a  great  wave  of  tender- 
ness swept  over  him.  He  felt  like  giving  thanks  to 
God  for  the  strange  accident  that  had  placed  this 
lovely  creature  in  his  care.  An  emotion  akin  to  love 
was  fast  maturing  in  his  heart,  born  of  a  sense  of 
responsibility.  He  left  her  peacefully  sleeping,  and 
returned  to  his  work  upon  the  hut.  • 

The  problem  of  fixing  the  dried  palm  leaves  to  the 
sides  of  the  structure  still  confronted  him.  At  last 
he  solved  it.  Beginning  at  the  ground,  he  placed  a 
thick  layer  of  the  leaves  from  one  end  of  the  frame- 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  175 

work  to  the  other,  and  then,  cutting  a  long  thin  sap- 
ling, fastened  it  across  them,  parallel  to  the  ground, 
by  means  of  some  of  the  thin,  rope-like  vines.  Then 
he  placed  a  second  layer,  some  ten  inches  higher  up, 
overlapping  the  first  in  the  manner  of  shingles.  A 
second  sapling  served  to  hold  these  in  place,  in  the 
same  way  as  before.  Thus  working,  he  managed,  in 
the  course  of  a  couple  of  hours,  to  completely  thatch 
one  side  of  the  hut. 

By  this  time,  Eve  had  roused  herself,  and  come  to 
his  assistance.  At  sunset  the  other  side  was  done, 
and  a  heavy  layer  of  the  leaves  had  been  placed  over 
the  ridge-pole.  Randall  felt  sure  that  in  case  of 
ordinary  rains,  at  least,  the  hut  would  be  water-proof. 
He  gathered  a  great  quantity  of  dried  grass,  and 
covered  the  floor  on  either  side,  thus  improvising  two 
fairly  comfortable  beds. 

"This  will  do,  for  the  time  being,"  he  announced. 
"Later  on,  I'll  build  a  real  house.  Shall  we  have 
supper  ?  I  confess  I'm  hungry." 

"So  am  I." 

He  took  her  hand,  and  helped  her  down  the  sandy 
face  of  the  bluff.  She  accepted  his  assistance  naturally, 
without  coquetry  or  any  suggestion  of  sex.  When 
they  had  disposed  of  the  inevitable  fish,  Randall  sug- 
gested a  stroll  along  the  beach  in  the  moonlight. 

They  walked  along  hand  in  hand,  like  two  children. 
The  surf  was  breaking  softly  over  the  reef,  so  low  as 
to  be  almost  imperceptible.  Its  presence  was  indi- 
cated by  a  smother  of  creamy  foam,  and  a  sparkle 
of  spray  that  shone  in  the  moonlight  like  silver  lace. 


176  A  LOST  PAEADISE. 

"If  it  is  an  island,"  Randall  remarked  presently, 
"we  may  be  here  a  long  time." 

"Then  I  hope  it  is,"  she  replied.  "I  am  quite 
happy."  % 

"Most  people  wouldn't  be,  under  the  circumstances." 

"No.  I  suppose  they'd  be  thinking  of  the  past — 
of  the  things  they'd  lost.  Since  I  haven't  any  past, 
I'm  able  to  like  the  present — very  much,  indeed." 

He  pressed  her  hand,  and  she  returned  the  pres- 
sure quite  frankly.  For  a  moment  her  response  filled 
him  with  misgivings.  Had  he  any  right  to  take 
advantage  of  the  position  in  which  this  girl's  accident 
had  placed  her  memory?  He  felt  sure  that,  should 
her  memory  return,  she  would  not  for  a  moment  be 
walking  with  him  in  this  natural  and  unreserved  way, 
along  the  beach  in  the  moonlight. 

"Eve,"  he  said,  gently,  "do  you  really  mean  that 
you  don't  want  to  go  away?" 

"Why  should  I  ?  I  can't  remember  about — about 
all  that  came  before,  but  sometimes  I  have  a  confused 
idea  of  noise  and  ugly  city  streets,  and  rain  and  fog, 
and  doing  the  same  things  over  and  over,  day  after 
day — it  seems  like  a  wretched  Jurmoil  that  I  have 
somehow  escaped.  Everything  here  is  so  fresh,  so 
lovely,  so  beautiful!"  She  gazed  out  over  the  moon- 
lit sea,  and  a  sigh  of  happiness  escaped  her.  "I'm 
happy,  just  being.  It  seems  as  though  it  was  what 
I'd  wanted  to  do,  always." 

They  turned  back,  presently,  toward  the  hut. 
Eandall  did  not  speak  for  a  long  time.  He,  too,  was 
conscious  of  a  thrill  of  joy,  of  vital  happiness,  in 


A  LOST  PAEADISE.  177 

their  situation,  which  at  times  seemed  almost  unreal 
in  its  idyllic  perfection.  As  they  neared  the  camp, 
a  new  thought  came  to  him.  In  the  construction  of 
the  little  hut,  it  had  not,  until  now,  occurred  to  him 
that  he  and  the  girl  would  be  obliged  to  share  it. 
He  wondered  how  she  would  view  the  arrangement. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  made  no  comment,  but 
crept  into  her  grassy  bed  with  little  sighs  of  weari- 
ness and  content. 

"I'm     awfully    tired/'     she     said.       "Good-night." 

Eandall,  stalking  about  in  the  moonlight,  outside, 
presently  knew  from  her  regular  breathing  that  she  was 
asleep. 

After  a  time  he,  too,  crept  into  the  hut,  and,  care- 
ful to  make  no  noise  that  might  disturb  her,  lay  down 
upon  the  sweet-smelling  grass. 

For  hours  he  could  not  sleep ;  his  thoughts  wandered 
unceasingly  to  the  girl  beside  him.  Presently  he 
leaned  over  and  kissed  her  hand  as  it  lay  white  in 
the  moonlight  that  shone  through  the  open  end  of 
the  hut.  A  sense  of  grave  and  tender  responsibility 
toward  her  filled  his  soul. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  weeks  that  followed  the  casting  up  of  Randall 
and  his  companion  from  the  sea  passed  in  a  haze  of 
warm  and  golden  sunlight.  The  soft,  yet  brilliant, 
dawns,  the  hot  cloudless  skies,  the  low  droning  of  the 
countless  insects  in  the  forest,  the  sharp  cries  of  the 
wild  fowl,  the  sighing  of  the  evening  breeze  through 
the  jungle,  the  radiant  moon,  the  clear  brilliance  of 
the  stars  in  the  purple  night  sky,  all  formed  a  won- 
derful panorama,  combining  hot,  passionate  life  with 
a  deep  and  infinite  peace. 

Xo  evidence  of  the  presence  of  other  human  beings 
had  appeared.  Randall  was  of  the  opinion  that  they 
had  been  cast  upon  one  of  the  thousands  of  small 
islands  which  are  scattered  throughout  the  western 
part  of  the  Pacific.  Later  on,  he  proposed  to  make. 
a  tour  of  investigation.  For  the  present,  the  supply- 
ing of  their  material  wants  occupied  all  his  time. 

Fish  they  were  able  to  secure  in  abundance,  both 
by  means  of  his  improvised  tackle,  and  by  spearing 
them,  on  the  mud  flats  and  shallows  of  the  reef.  For 
this  purpose  Randall  had  made  a  spear,  its  shaft  com- 
posed of  a  stout  six-foot  sapling,  its  head  of  the  tri- 
angular-shaped tooth  of  a  shark,  which  he  had  found 
upon  the  beach.  It  was  a  very  serviceable  weapon, 

178 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  179 

and  he  felt  rather  proud  of  the  skill  which  he  began 
to  acquire  in  its  use. 

But  a  diet  of  fish  soon  began  to  pall.  Eggs,  large 
and  slightly  pinkish  in  color,  they  found  occasionally 
in  rough  nests  throughout  the  underbrush,  and  Eandall 
had  several  times  endeavored  to  kill  one  of  the  scurry- 
ing brush  fowl  with  a  hastily  flung  stone,  but  without 
success.  He  did  however,  on  several  occasions,  manage 
to  bring  down  with  a  club  some  smaller  birds,  resem- 
bling pigeons,  which  seemed,  at  first,  to  show  little 
fear  at  his  approach.  They  soon  became  wary,  how- 
ever, and  he  could  get  them  but  seldom.  When  he 
did,  they  formed,  broiled  over  the  hot  coals,  a  deli- 
cious addition  to  their  bill  of  fare. 

Several  varieties  of  fruit  he  had  found  in  the 
forest,  but  the  only  one  familiar  to  him  was  a  sort  of 
stunted  and  undersized  banana,  with  a  slightly  bitter 
taste.  These  they  ate  freely,  and  with  great  relish. 
Once  a  cocoanut,  swathed  in  its  fibrous  green  husk, 
.was  cast  up  by  the  sea,  and  they  not  only  enjoyed 
its  contents,  but  found  very  useful  the  two  drinking 
cups  that  Randall  managed  to  make  from  the  shell. 

They  searched  the  adjacent  jungle  carefully  for 
cocoanut  trees,  but  found  none.  Some  greenish-brown, 
fruit,  resembling  pawpaws,  and  a  number  of  large 
yellow  gourds  were  the  only  results  of  the  expedition. 
The  former  had  a  sweetish  taste,  not  unlike  a  banana. 
The  latter  served  to  hold  water  and  other  supplies. 

Along  the  edge  of  the  pools  formed  by  the  little 
stream  Randall  secured  from  time  to  time  a  number 
of  large  green  frogs,  which  he  ate  with  gusto;  his 


180  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

companion,  however,  could  not  be  induced  to  touch 
them. 

She  had  very  soon  recovered  from  her  wound,  and, 
but  for  the  strange  loss  of  memory  that  it  had  caused, 
was  none  the  worse  for  her  experience.  In  fact,  the 
simple,  natural  life  in  the  open  air  had  made  them 
both  feel  superlatively  well.  The  sun  had  browned 
them  to  the  point  where  they  no  longer  feared  expo- 
sure to  its  rays,  and  the  activities  of  their  daily  life 
left  them,  by  night,  happily  tired,  and  ready  to  sleep 
like  children  on  their  beds  of  grass. 

A  singular  and  charming  intimacy,  a  comradeship, 
had  grown  up  between  them.  In  all  their  daily  tasks, 
Eve,  as  Eandall  had  now  come  to  call  her,  worked  at 
his  side.  He  had  shown  her  how  to  clean  and  pre- 
pare the  fish  that  formed  so  large  a  part  of  their 
daily  fare,  and  even  how  to  catch  them,  while  he  was 
gathering  wood  for  the  fire,  or  plucking  their  very 
occasional  pigeons. 

With  a  bow  and  some  makeshift  arrows  that  he  had 
manufactured,  Eve  tried  her  skill  along  the  edge  of 
the  forest.  The  scrub  fowl  were  far  too  quick  and 
wary  for  her  aim,  but  she  found  the  pigeons  easier 
game,  and  was  as  delighted  as  a  child  when  she  occa- 
sionally managed  to  bring  one  down.  The  light 
bamboo  arrows,  tipped  with  a  bit  of  sharp  shell,  and 
feathered  with  the  plumage  of  a  pigeon's  wing,  were 
by  no  means  to  be  despised  as  weapons  of  offense. 
Eandall  constructed  for  himself  a  larger  and  stronger 
bow,  and  some  heavier  arrows,  with  which  he  prac- 
tised assiduously,  convinced  that  even  in  a  fight  with 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  181 

larger  animals,  should  any  such  exist  in  the  jungle, 
they  would  prove  by  no  means  useless. 

So  far,  however,  nothing  more  dangerous  than  an 
occasional  lizard  or  snake  had  manifested  itself.  The 
island,  if  island  it  was,  seemed  singularly  free  from 
animal  life.  They  made  a  long  trip  down  the  beach 
one  day,  to  where  a  point  of  rocks  jutted  out  into  the 
sea,  crowned  with  umbrella  trees  and  ferns.  These 
rocks  barred  their  further  progress  that  day.  The 
sea  prevented  them  from  passing  around,  and  they 
decided  to  postpone  the  climb  over  the  little  cliff  to 
another  time. 

They  hurried  back  in  the  late  afternoon,  as  the  rising 
wind  and  the  clouding  sky  to  the  west  gave  promise 
of  rain.  Eve  pointed  out,  with  a  smile,  that,  the  two 
ends  of  the  tent-shaped  hut  being  open,  the  one  facing 
the  west  would  certainly,  in  the  event  of  a  storm, 
admit  sufficient  rain  to  soak  them  thoroughly.  Randall 
proceeded  to  remedy  the  difficulty,  as  well  as  he  could, 
by  piling  logs,  pieces  of  stone,  and  brush  against  the 
opening. 

"It's  only  a  makeshift  after  all,"  he  said,  regarding 
his  work  with  a  smile.  "We'll  have  to  get  a  better 
shelter  than  this,  I'm  afraid,  if  we  have  many  storms." 

"The  wind  sweeps  clear  over  this  bluff,  too," 
remarked  Eve.  "Wouldn't  it  be  better  if  we  could 
find  a  more  sheltered  place?  ^There  might  be  a  sort 
of  a  cave  among  those  rocks  we  saw  this  morning. 
Wouldn't  it  be  nice,  if  we  could  find  a  big,  roomy 
one,  and  make  a  really  comfortable  home  ?" 


182  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

"You  talk  as  though  you  expected  to  stay  here 
always,"  Randall  laughed. 

"I  do!  I  don't  feel  in  the  least  like  going  away. 
Do  you?" 

"No;  but — "  He  hesitated,  unable  to  express  just 
what  he  felt.  The  thought  of  not  sharing  his  days 
with  her  sent  a  pang  of  unhappiness  through  him ;  yet, 
caring  for  her  as  he  did,  he  wondered  how  long  it 
would  be  possible  for  them  to  live  in  this  intimate 
and  delightful  companionship  without  recognizing 
the  greater  and  more  vital  issues  that  such  intimacy 
was  certain  to  raise.  Eve  was  a  woman  in  whom,  he 
felt  certain,  the  stream  of  life  flowed  abundantly. 
Now  that  he  admitted  to  himself  his  love  for  her,  he 
felt  many  times  an  overwhelming  desire  to  take  her 
in  his  arms,  to  kiss  her,  to  tell  her  of  his  emotion, 
yet  the  fact  that  her  past  had  been  taken  from  her 
restrained  him,  made  him  treat  her,  oftentimes,  with 
a  brusqueness  which  he  was  very  far  from  feeling. 

Occasionally  it  seemed  to  him  that  this  caused  her 
some  surprise,  yet  he  could  not  explain  his  attitude 
without  telling  her  the  reasons  for  it,  and  therefore 
he  contented  himself  with  saying  nothing. 

Once,  indeed,  he  told  her  something  about  his 
affair  with  Inez  Gordon. 

"I  thought  I  loved  her,"  he  said,  in  conclusion; 
"but  now  I  know  that  I  did  not."' 

"How  do  you  know  it,  Dick  ?"  she  asked,  her  wide, 
honest  eyes  searching  his  deeply. 

The  question  was  a  difficult  one  to  answer;  unless, 
indeed,  he  were  to  do  so  by  telling  her  the  truth. 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  183 

"Since  I  have  been  here — with  you,"  he  said,  "I 
have  been  very  happy.  I  could  not  have  been,  you 
know,  had  I  cared  for  anyone  else." 

She  looked  over  the  sea  in  silence  for  a  long  time. 

"I  have  never  been  in  love,"  she  remarked  presently. 

"How  do  you  know  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  am  certain  of  it.  I  cannot  remember — about 
things — before  I  came  here — but  I  am  certain  that  I 
did  not  care  for  anyone.  Had  I  done  so,  it  would 
have  left  some  memory,  some  trace.  See !"  She  held 
out  her  left  hand.  "I  am  neither  married  nor  engaged. 
Isn't  that  lucky  ?" 

"Yes,"   replied  Randall,   fervently;   "it  is." 

"I'm  glad  you  think  so,  Dick.  Do  you  know,  I'm 
not  half -sorry,  about  the  past?  The  present  seems 
so  wonderful!  I'm  very  happy.  This  place  seems 
just  like — Paradise." 

Randall  pulled  himself  together,  and  put  a  tight 
rein  upon  his  emotions,  else  he  would  have  declared 
himself  then  and  there. 

"People  in  your  world  and  mine  would  think  our 
life  together  here  altogether  too  unconventional,"  he 
remarked. 

"I  know.  That  is  the  trouble  with  the  world,  I 
fancy.  Everything  must  be  done  according  to  rule. 
Even  here,  we  practise  it.  We  are  just  two  children 
in  the  loving  arms  of  nature,  yet  we  wouldn't  dare 
to  take  each  other's  hands,  and  go  happily  out  into 
the  surf  for  our  daily  dip.  I  must  watch  you  swim- 
ming about  from  above,  when  I  would  love  to  be  with 
you,  and  must  wait  until  you  have  gone  after  fruit, 


184  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

or  eggs,  before  I  dare  venture  in,  myself.  Somehow 
it  seems  very — silly." 

Her  words  made  Randall  tremble,  yet  he  saw  that 
she  spoke  with  the  innocence  of  a  child. 

"Perhaps  we  shall  go,  together,  some  day,"  he  said 
abruptly. 

She  looked  at  him  with  glowing  eyes. 

"Please,  do  not  misunderstand  me,  Dick,"  she  said. 
"I  know  just  how  what  I  have  said  must  sound.  You 
must  not  think  that  I  do  not  understand.  I  meant 
only  that  under  such  surroundings  as  these,  in  all 
the  loveliness  and  peace  of  our  life  here,  the  con- 
ventions seem  far  away  and  unimportant." 

"If  it  is  a  sort  of  Paradise,  Eve,"  Randall  remarked, 
gravely,  "we  must  not  forget  that  in  it  there  may 
grow  the  tree  of  knowledge." 

"And  the  tree  of  life,  which  is  greater  than  knowl- 
edge. Oh,  please  don't  misunderstand  me  You  must 
not  think  me  just  a  silly  child.  Perhaps  you  may 
know  some  day  why  I  have  spoken  as  I  have."  She 
rose,  and  they  went  toward  the  hut 

Randall  was  puzzled,  and  for  a  moment  strongly 
attempted  to  pursue  the  question,  and  learn  just  what 
she  really  meant;  but  something  within  him  held  him 
back. 

"I  hope  the  rain  doesn't  come  through  our  roof 
to-night,"  he  remarked,  as  they  came  up  to  the  crazy 
structure. 

It  was  growing  very  dark,  and  the  clouds  in  the 
West  were  hurrying  toward  them,  bringing  with  them 
gusts  of  wind.  The  thatching  of  the  hut,  although  held 


A  LOST  PAEADISE.  185 

in  place  by  saplings  and  limbs  that  covered  it,  flapped 
and  fluttered  in  the  breeze,  and  the  swaying  of  the 
ridge-pole  caused  the  uprights  to  groan  and  creak 
against  it  with  dull  notes  of  complaint.  Eve  groped 
her  way  through  the  doorway,  and  curled  herself  up 
on  her  bed  of  grass,  and  Randall  at  once  followed. 
It  was  pitch  dark  within  the  hut;  only  by  his  com- 
panion's breathing  was  he  conscious  of  her  presence. 

For  some  nights  past  Randall  had  slept  across  the 
door,  instead  of  within.  It  was  a  concession  to  the 
conventions,  of  course,  and  he  knew  it.  Even  situated 
as  they  were,  he  could  not  overcome  a  feeling  of 
strangeness,  of  impropriety,  in  lying  there  by  her  side. 
The  whole  width  of  the  hut  separated  them,  it  is 
true,  but  he  had  many  times  felt  like  bridging  it,  and 
drawing  her  into  his  arms.  It  was  the  very  conscious- 
ness of  this  desire  that  had  so  often  driven  him  to 
sleep  without. 

To-night,  however,  the  threat  of  the  storm  made  his 
bed  under  the  stars  impracticable.  He  lay  a  long 
time  gazing  up  at  the  blackness  and  wondering  whether 
or  not  his  Eve  was  awake. 

Presently  he  heard  her,  softly  speaking  his  name. 

"Dick,"  she  said,  "are  you  asleep?" 

"No,  not  yet." 

"It's  begun  to  rain.    I  hear  the  drops  on  the  roof.* 

"Yes.     And  the  wind  is  getting  stronger,  I  think." 

After  a  long  interval  of  silence  she  spoke  again. 

"Are  you  happy,  Dick?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  dear,  very  happy.     Are  you?" 

"I  would  be,  Dick,  if  the  rain  were  not  dripping 


186  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

down  my  neck."  She  laughed,  and  changed  her  posi- 
tion. "There — it's  all  right  now.  Your  roof  leaks, 
I'm  afraid." 

He  was  somewhat  chagrined  at  this,  and  would 
have  made  her  change  to  his  side  of  the  hut,  but  she 
refused  to  do  so. 

"It's  warm  rain,"  she  laughed,  "and  I  don't  feel 
it  now,  anyway." 

There  was  another  long  silence.  Presently  it  was 
broken  as  the  storm  swept  down  upon  them.  The 
sprinkling  of  rain  rose  to  a  torrent,  which  thundered 
upon  the  thatched  roof  and  swept  in  fine  spray  through 
the  obstructions  that  Randall  had  placed  against  the 
western  opening.  He  realized  that  his  companion  was 
likely  to  be  drenched;  he  could  hear  the  drip,  drip 
of  the  rain  as  it  came  through  the  roof  on  her  side 
of  the  hut,  which  faced  the  fury  of  the  storm. 

"You  must  let  me  change  places  with  you,"  he 
insisted. 

"No,  Dick.  I  won't  do  it.  I  see  no  more  reason 
why  you  should  get  wet  than  I.  I  really  don't  mind 
it  in  the  least."  His  protestations  were  of  no  avail. 

Randall  lay  still  for  a  long  time,  listening  to  the 
roaring  of  the  rain.  Occasionally  he  could  hear  Eve 
move  restlessly  about,  and  his  conscience  smote  him. 
Doubtless  she  was  getting  wet  and  cold.  His  own 
side  of  the  hut  remained  comparatively  dry,  but  the 
dampness  and  the  wind  made  even  him  shiver  occa- 
sionally. 

After  a  long  time  she  spoke  again. 

"Are  you  asleep  yet,  Dick  ?"  she  asked. 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  187 

"No." 

"Don't  you  feel  a  little— just  a  little— cold  ?" 

"Yes.     Do  you  ?" 

"A  trifle.  I'm  going  to  move  down  a  little."  He 
heard  her  moving  in  the  grass.  "Good-night,  now. 
I  won't  disturb  you  again." 

"I  really  wish  you'd  take  this  side.  I  insist  upon 
it." 

"Couldn't  think  of  it.     Good-night." 

An  hour  later  Randall  had  fallen  into  a  faint  doze. 
He  was  not  really  asleep,  but  his  thoughts  had  car- 
ried him  far  from  the  little  hut  in  which  he  lay. 
Suddenly  he  started,  and  half-turned,  as  he  realized 
that  someone  touched  his  arm.  Then  he  heard  Eve's 
voice,  close  to  his  ear. 

"I'm — I'm  so  cold,  Dick,"  she  said;  "so  lonely  and 
cold !  Do  you  mind  ?" 

He  swept  her  into  his  arms,  and  held  her  within 
their  shelter. 

"Poor  little  girl!"  he  murmured.  "You  ought  to 
have  come  long  ago." 

She  nestled  beside  him,  and  pressed  her  cheek  to 
his.  He  realized  that  it  was  cold  and  wet.  Suddenly 
a  great  wave  of  love  swept  through  him.  He  drew 
her  close,  and  kissed  her,  covering  her  face  with  his 
kisses  as  though  to  warm  it. 

She  flung  her  arms  about  him,  and  pressed  her 
lips  to  his. 

"Oh,  Dick!"  she  whispered,  and  lay  very  still  in 
his  arms  for  a  long  time. 

He  was  first  to  speak. 


188  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

"I  love  you,  Eve,"  he  said.     "Are  you  glad?" 

She  did  not  answer  him,  but  nodded  her  head  softly 
against  his  breast. 

"I  have  tried  to  keep  from  telling  you.  Somehow 
it  doesn't  seem  just — just  fair,  under  the  circumstances. 
You  might  be  very  sorry,  if — if  you  remembered. 
But  I  can't  help  it.  I  love  you — more  than  I  had 
ever  dreamed  of  loving  anyone.  If  you  think  that 
I  should  not  have  told  you — " 

She  interrupted  him  by  again  placing  her  lips 
against  his.  Their  message  seemed  to  him  unmis- 
takable. She  loved  him.  He  crushed  her  to  him. 

"God,  I  love  you  so !"  he  cried. 

She  gently  pushed  herself  free. 

"Don't  say  anything  more  about  it  to-night,  dear," 
she  whispered  softly.  "I — I  want  to  think." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE  storm  roared  upon  the  thatched  roof  of  the 
hut  throughout  the  greater  part  of  the  night.  Eandall 
lay  sleepless,  with  Eve  held  close  in  his  arms.  The 
knowledge  that  she  loved  him  had  brought  him 
a  happiness  too  great  to  be  wasted  in  sleep. 

Occasionally  he  moved  slightly,  to  protect  her  from 
the  drops  of  rain,  which,  even  on  his  side  of  the  hut, 
found  their  way  through  the  roof.  Once  or  twice  he 
kissed  her,  tenderly,  reverently,  upon  the  forehead. 
One  of  her  arms  lay  about  his  neck.  In  the  darkness 
he  could  not  see  her  face,  and  did  not  know  whether 
she  slept  or  not.  As  the  night  wore  on,  he  thought, 
from  her  breathing,  that  she  did. 

Toward  morning  the  rain  ceased.  At  the  first  gray 
streaks  of  dawn,  he  gently  disengaged  himself  from 
his  companion's  arms,  and  went  outside. 

The  storm  had  passed  with  the  night,  and  the  sun 
rose  clear  and  brilliant.  He  walked  swiftly  down  to 
the  beach,  and,  throwing  off  his  clothes,  plunged  in. 
The  warm  sea,  the  fresh  morning  air,  revived  him. 
In  a  short  time  he  began  collecting  brushwood  and 
placing  it  in  the  sun  to  dry,  preparatory  to  lighting 
the  fire  for  their  breakfast.  Eve  had  not  yet  appeared. 

Presently  he  saw  her,  making  her  way  slowly  down 

189 


190  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

the  side  of  the  bluff,  toward  the  litfle  pool  in  which 
she  made  her  morning  ablutions.  He  called  a  cheery 
•good-morning  to  her,  and  started  off  through  the  brush, 
to  gather  fruit  and  eggs  for  their  breakfast. 

When  he  returned,  the  fire,  which  he  had  already 
kindled,  was  blazing  merrily,  and  Eve  was  boiling 
water  in  one  of  the  large  shells,  in  readiness  for  the 
eggs  he  brought.  He  went  up  to  her,  and  laid  the 
results  of  his  expedition  on  the  sand. 

"How  do  you  feel,  dear  ?"  he  asked. 

She  turned,  with  a  faint  flush. 

"Splendid!  I  had  a  lovely  bath,  while  you  were 
gone.  Isn't  everything  fresh  and  sweet,  after  the 
rain?" 

He  nodded,  and  began  to  prepare  their  meal.  He 
wondered  whether  or  not  to  refer  to  the  events  of  the 
night,  but  in  the  end  decided  not  to  do  so.  She  had 
said  that  she  wished  to  think.  He  would  wait,  and 
let  her  be  the  first  to  speak. 

A  tender  shyness  seemed  to  possess  her  during  their 
breakfast.  At  times  she  seemed  to  fear  to  look  at 
him;  at  others,  when  his  own  gaze  was  turned  aside, 
Randall  knew  instinctively  that  she  was  devouring 
him  with  her  eyes. 

She  seemed  very  beautiful  to  him,  this  day.  The 
white  shirtwaist  and  short  pongee  skirt,  washed  and 
dried  on  the  hot  beach  during  her  swim,  were  spotless. 
Her  nair,  in  two  great  plaits,  she  had  wound  about 
her  head  like  a  crown,  and  fastened  in  pla.ce  with  two 
thin  splinters  of  bamboo,  each  holding  a  mass  of  red 
blossoms.  Her  waist,  open  at  the  neck,  disclosed  the 


A  LOST  PAEADISE.  191 

tender  curves  of  her  throat  and  breast,  burned  a  warm 
brown  by  the  sun.  Her  arms,  bare  to  the  elbow,  were 
round  and  smooth  and  satiny  brown,  like  warm-tinted 
ivory.  A  flush  of  health  and  vitality  glowed  through 
the  tan  of  her  cheeks.  She  seemed  a  veritable  wood 
nymph,  a  dryad,  crowned  with  forest  flowers.  He 
could  scarcely  refrain  from  taking  her  in  his  arms  and 
kissing  her,  but — first — she  must  speak. 

That  day  they  determined  to  explore  the  rocky 
cliff  that  jutted  out  across  the  beach  at  its  eastern 
extremity. 

They  set  out  immediately  after  breakfast,  Randall 
carrying  his  shark's  tooth  spear,  and  Eve  her  bow  and 
half-a-dozen  arrows  in  a  quiver  which  he  had  made 
her  from  a  portion  of  the  canvas  covering  of  the  life- 
buoy. 

It  was  a  glorious  morning,  and  they  enjoyed  the 
three-mile  walk  along  the  beach  to  the  full.  The  surf 
of  the  preceding  night  had  cast  up  a  quantity  of 
debris  of  various  sorts,  and  among  other  things  a  huge 
turtle,  which  they  found  to  be  dead.  Randall  rolled 
its  heavy  carcass  up  safely  beyond  the  line  of  the 
breakers,  intending  to  use  its  shell,  later,  for  a  recep- 
tacle to  hold  water. 

The  tide  was  out  when  they  reached  the  little  point 
of  rocks,  and  Randall  saw  that  it  would  be  possible 
to  pass  around  it,  by  wading  out  over  the  reef;  but 
there  seemed  no  object  in  doing  this,  so  they  decided 
to  clamber  up  its  side. 

This  they  managed  to  do  with  no  great  difficulty. 
The  rock  was  overlaid  in  many  places  with  earth,  and 


192  A"  LOST  PAKADISE. 

a  heavy  growth  of  brush  covered  its  face  on  the  side 
toward  the  land. 

Ip  a  few  moments  they  had  reached  the  top,  and 
found  themselves  upon  a  ragged  and  water-worn  cliff, 
which  extended  in  irregular  lines  as  far  as  the  eye 
could  reach  toward  the  east. 

The  face  of  the  cliff  was  much  broken,  as  though 
the  rock  had  shelved  away  from  time  to  time,  under 
the  influence  of  the  weather.  Innumerable  small  holes, 
like  caves,  broke  its  gray  face,  and  the  upper  edge 
sloped  back  toward  the  south,  and  was  crowned  with 
a  growth  of  coarse  yellow  grass,  amongst  which  grew 
innumerable  umbrella  trees,  ferns,  and  smaller  tropical 
growths. 

Several  of  the  caves  appeared  to  be  of  fair  size,  and 
from  all  of  them  issued  a  constant  stream  of  swift- 
moving  birds,  whose  noisy  cries  at  times  almost 
deafened  them. 

They  proceeded  along  the  edge  of  the  cliff  for  per- 
haps a  quarter  of  a  mile,  climbing  over  huge  slabs 
of  rock,  and  sometimes  forced  to  ascend  to  the  top- 
most edge  of  the  plateau  in  order  to  make  their  way. 

After  a  time  the  cliff  began  to  dip  toward  the  level 
of  the  beach,  and  before  long  they  found  themselves 
upon  the  edge  of  a  deep  water-course,  which  foamed 
and  eddied  over  the  rocks  as  it  plunged  toward  the 
sea. 

Here  the  rocks  became  almost  like  steps.  They  were 
able  to  descend  without  difficulty  to  the  very  edge  of 
the  little  bay  that  marked  the  termination  of  the 
stream.  On  the  further  side  the  cliff  again  rose  in 


'A  LOST  PARADISE.  193 

step  formation,  to  a  high,  jagged  point  of  rock,  upon 
which  stood  a  tall  dead  tree. 

They  forded  the  little  stream  without  difficulty,  and 
clambered  up  the  opposite  side  of  the  cliff.  They  had 
almost  reached  the  top,  when  Randall  gave  a  cry,  and 
pointed  to  a  large  irregular  opening  in  the  face  of 
the  rock. 

"There's  our  new  home,"  he  exclaimed. 

His  companion  followed  his  glance,  and  smiled. 

"It  must  have  been  made  for  us,"  she  said. 

The  projecting  face  of  the  cliff,  just  beneath  the 
line  of  shrubbery  that  crowned  its  topmost  summit, 
extended  outward  for  perhaps  twenty  feet,  smooth 
and  level,  like  a  shelf.  In  the  wall  at  the  rear  lay 
the  opening  that  Randall  had  indicated.  It  was  the 
mouth  of  a  large  cave. 

The  level  expanse  of  rock  before  it  was  reached  by 
the  irregular  steps  from  the  stream  below.  At  the 
base  of  the  cliff,  a  tiny  beach  lined  the  semi-circular 
shores  of  the  bay.  A  sloping  path  led  to  the  higher 
ground  which  formed  the  top  of  the  plateau.  The 
mouth  of  the  cave  faced  toward  the  north-west. 

They  determined  to  explore  it  at  once.  Randall 
grasped  his  spear  firmly,  and  led  the  way,  with  Eve 
following.  "No  sign  of  life  was  to  be  seen,  except  the 
many  birds  that  flew  in  and  out. 

Their  examination  consumed  but  a  short  time.  The 
cave  was  some  twenty  feet  in  depth,  with  a  fairly 
regular  floor,  and  its  walls  and  roof  were  lined  with 
bird's  nests,  cemented  tightly  to  the  rocks.  The  floor 


194     •  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

was  covered  with  twigs,  bits  of  grass,  egg-shells, 
feathers  and  the  droppings  of  birds. 

"I'll  clean  this  place  out,"  Eandall  cried,  "and  we'll 
move  in  at  once.  We  couldn't  have  found  anything 
better." 

The  remainder  of  the  morning  was  spent  in  carrying 
out  his  plans.  The  destruction  and  removal  of  the 
birds'  nests  resulted  in  a  chorus  of  disapproval  from 
the  feathered  occupants  of  the  place,  but  Randall  gave 
scant  attention  to  their  protests.  Within  two  hours, 
he  had  made  the  place  comparatively  clean,  and,  leaving 
Eve  to  complete  the  work  of  preparation,  he  mounted 
to  the  top  of  the  cliff,  in  search  of  material  for  their 
beds. 

An  hour  or  more  elapsed  before  he  returned  with 
an  immense  bundle  of  dried  grass,  which  he  threw 
down  from  the  top  of  the  cliff,  and  instructed  Eve 
to  place  within  the  cave. 

"Here  are  some  bananas,"  he  called,  as  he  tossed 
her  a  bunch  of  the  fruit.  "That's  all  we'll  have  for 
dinner  to-day.  I'm  going  back  to  the  camp,  and  get 
our  things.  You  wait  here." 

The  bringing  of  the  various  articles  they  had  col- 
lected during  their  fortnight  at  the  other  camp,  con- 
sumed the  bulk  of  the  afternoon.  Eve  arranged  the 
grass  upon  the  floor  of  the  cave,  and  then,  during  one 
of  Randall's  absences,  ascended  to  the  plateau  above, 
and  came  back  with  huge  bunches  of  flowers,  which 
she  arranged  in  great  masses  about  the  place. 

Randall  appeared  at  intervals,  carrying  their  mol- 
lusk  shells,  cocoanut  cups,  his  bow  and  arrows,  the 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  195 

life-buoy,  the  few  articles  of  clothing  which  they  had 
discarded,  and  on  his  last  trip  a  string  of  fish  and  a 
handful  of  eggs.  "ISTow  we'll  have  supper,"  he  an- 
nounced, and  proceeded  to  build  a  fire  upon  the  flat 
shelf  of  a  rock  in  front  of  the  cave. 

The  sun  was  just  setting  when  they  finished  their 
meal,  and  they  sat  upon  their  rocky  porch  and  watched 
the  beauty  of  the  passing  day. 

Beneath  them  stretched  the  quiet  sea,  sweeping 
flame-colored  to  the  far-off  horizon.  The  western  sky 
glowed  with  orange  and  pink,  above  which  it  faded 
to  a  pearly  Kile  green.  An  infinite  peace  lay  upon 
the  surface  of  the  ocean,  blotting  out  the  noises  of  the 
day.  Randall  took  Eve's  hand  in  his,  and  sat  drinking 
in  the  beauty  of  the  sunset. 

Before  long  the  colors  began  to  fade  in  the  evening 
sky,  and,  almost  before  they  realized  it,  the  sunset 
had  gone,  and  in  its  place  shone  the  deep  blue  of  the 
night,  set  with  countless  brilliant  stars. 

The  soft  night  wind,  the  murmur  of  the  surf  on 
the  beach  below,  the  radiance  of  the  tropic  sky,  all 
spoke  to  Randall  of  love.  He  pressed  Eve's  hand,  and 
wondered  how  long  it  would  be  before  she  would  speak, 
as  he  had  spoken  the  night  before. 

"How  wonderful  the  night  seems!"  he  said,  at 
length,  looking  into  her  eyes. 

She  did  not  at  once  reply,  but  after  a  time,  she 
began  to  speak. 

"It  is  the  most  wonderful  night  of  our  lives,"  she 
said  slowly.  "No  other  night  will  ever  be  like  this, 
for  it  is  our  wedding  night.  I  have  thought  over 


196  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

what  you  said,  and  now  I  am  ready  to  answer  you. 
...  I  love  you.  I  would  love  you  no  less  if  this 
thing  had  not  come  to  me  that  makes  my  past  a  blank. 
I  love  you  because  you  reach  my  soul,  because  you 
speak  to  me  in  a  way  in  which  only  love  can  speak. 
I  know  what  it  means,  for  me  to  say  this  to  you. 
It  means  not  only  that  we  love  each  other,  but  that 
we  give  ourselves  to  each  other  for  all  time.  It  is 
what  the  world  calls  marriage  between  you  and  me. 
It  is  the  earthly  manifestation  of  a  thing  that  is  greater 
than  the  things  of  the  earth.  I  love  you,  and  I  know 
that  you  love  me  no  less.  I  give  myself  to  you,  because 
the  essence  of  love  is  to  give.  Here,  beneath  the  stars, 
in  the  sight  of  God,  I  pledge  you  my  soul  and  my 
body,  and  to  none  other  shall  they  be  given,  while  I 
live." 

There  was  a  wonderful  solemnity  in  her  words, 
which  thrilled  Randall's  soul,  and  yet  made  him 
afraid.  It  was  not  that  he  doubted  his  love  for  this 
woman — every  fibre  of  his  being  responded  to  the 
love  and  passion  in  her  voice.  Yet,  when  he  turned 
to  her,  and  took  her  in  his  arms,  a  feeling  of  great 
tenderness,  of  responsibility,  swept  over  him.  Love 
— the  love  -she  gave  him — seemed  here,  in  the  vast 
peace  of  nature,  to  be  a  thing  beyond  all  bitterness, 
all  material  considerations.  He  felt  as  though  some 
holy  of  holies  had  opened,  and  bathed  him  in  the  light 
of  the  divine  fire. 

Presently  Eve  spoke  again. 

"My  love  has  given  me  the  peace  that  passeth  all 
understanding,"  she  whispered,  and  offered  her  lips  to 
him. 


A  LOST  PAEADISE.  197 

They  sat  thus,  held  close  in  each  other's  arms,  for 
a  long  time.  The  moon,  a  brilliant  crescent  of  silver, 
rose  in  the  eastern  sky.  Only  the  soft  murmur  of 
the  sea  upon  the  little  beach  beneath  them  broke  the 
silence  of  the  night. 

After  a  time  Randall  spoke. 

"No  matter  who  you  are — no  matter  what  may 
come,  hereafter — you  belong  to  me,  until  death." 

She  laid  her  cheek  beside  his. 

"No  matter  what  happens — I  am  yours — forever  and 
ever." 

"But  if  you  should  regret?" 

"Then  I  should  regret  that  I  had  ever  been  born." 

A  sense  of  unreality  tortured  Randall's  soul.  He 
knew  now  that  he  loved  this  woman — knew  that,  so 
long  as  he  might  live,  no  other  woman  could  mean 
anything  to  him.  Yet  what  had  he  to  offer  her?  His 
efforts  in  New  York  had  resulted  in  dismal  failure. 
Here  on  this  desolate  island,  he  might  seem  to  this 
girl  a  king;  in  the  dreary  bustle  of  the  world,  he 
would  be  as  nothing — a  failure,  a  man  without  money, 
without  position,  without  any  of  the  things  that  go 
to  make  up  life.  Here  these  things  were  of  little 
account,  but  in  that  great  world  beyond  the  horizon 
they  counted  for  very  much  indeed — for  everything 
that  constituted  existence  as  the  world  knew  it.  And 
what  right  had  he  to  assume  that  they  would  always 
remain  here,  in  this  far-off  place?  The  very  next 
morning  might  find  a  trading  ship  anchored  off  shore. 
Then  this  woman,  who  gave  her  soul  unto  his  keeping 
would  perforce  go  back  to  her  friends — the  records 


198  A  LOST  PAEADISE. 

of  The  Batavia  would  show  clearly  who  she  was.  Had 
he  the  right  to  make  her  his  wife,  under  the  existing 
circumstances  ?  Was  it  honorable,  fair,  on  his  part, 
to  take  advantage  of  her  position,  her  love  ? 

He  drew  away  from  her,  and  gazed  out  across  the  sea 
in  an  agony  of  indecision. 

Presently  he  became  aware  of  her  hand  stealing  about 
his  neck,  of  her  breath  upon  his  face. 

"What  is  the  matter,  dear?"  she  asked,  a  look  of 
fright  in  her  eyes. 

"Nothing.  I — I  was  thinking.  I  feel,  somehow, 
afraid—" 

"You  love  me,  Dick  ?     Tell  me  that  you  love  me." 

"Better  than  anything  in  the  world — better  than  my 
life." 

"Then  why  are  you  afraid  ?" 

"It  is  because  I  do  love  you  that  I  am." 

"But — of  what?  If  we  love  each  other,  isn't  that 
enough  ?" 

"I  have  nothing  to  give  you,  dear — except  myself." 

"And  do  you  think  I  want  anything  more  ?" 

"Not  now,  perhaps,  but — if  we  should  leave  here,  if 
you  should  go  back  to  your  people — 

She  drew  away  from  him,  shivering  slightly. 

"Is  that  the  way  you  love  ?"  she  asked. 

Something  in  her  voice  stung  him.  He  turned  and 
drew  her  fiercely  to  him. 

"I  love  with  all  my  heart  and  soul,  and  with  my  very 
breath.  But  I  want  to  do  what  is  right — what  is  best 
for  you.  I  would  rather  die  than  bring  you  any 
pain — -any  regret." 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  199 

She  did  not  answer  him.  A  strange  trembling  swept 
over  her.  She  clung  to  him,  seeking  his  lips  with  hers. 

"Oh,  my  love,  my  dearest  love !"  she  cried.  "Don't 
spoil  this  night  with  your  foolish  fears.  I  am  yours — 
yours !  If  I  thought  that  you  did  not  love  me,  I  should 
feel  like  throwing  myself  over  the  cliff  into  the  sea." 
She  clung  to  him,  her  arms  about  his  neck.  "Come," 
she  said,  and  rose.  "I  have  brought  many  flowers  for 
you,  and  made  ready  our  new  home." 

Randall  rose  to  his  feet,  and  put  his  arm  about  the 
girl's  waist. 

"May  God  bless  the  night,  and  forgive  me,  if  I  do 
you  any  wrong,"  he  said,  as  they  entered  the  shadow 
of  the  cave. 

The  flowers  made  the  place  sweet  with  their  perfume. 
Randall  drew  the  girl  to  him,  and  kissed  her. 

"My  wife !"  he  said.    "My  wife,  in  the  eyes  of  God." 

The  surf  broke  softly  on  the  little  beach,  and  the  new 
moon  silvered  its  curling  foam.  The  tender  night  wind 
whispered  through  the  umbrella  trees  upon  the  top  of 
the  cliff,  and  all  nature  wrapped  the  two  about  with 
the  soft  mantle  of  its  purity.  A  single  shooting  star, 
coursing  toward  the  horizon,  lit  the  sky  with  a  momen- 
tary brilliance,  then  plunged  into  the  sea. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE  dawn  broke  radiant  with  scarlet  and  gold  over 
a  sapphire  sea.  Randall  stepped  out  of  the  cave,  and 
made  his  way  slowly  down  the  rocks  toward  the  beach. 
A  wonderful  peace  filled  the  air.  The  smell  of  the 
flowers,  which  festooned  the  jungle  with  vivid  splashes 
of  pink  and  red,  swept  softly  over  the  edge  of  the  cliff, 
and  mingled  with  the  salt  smell  of  the  sea. 

Randall  threw  his  clothes  upon  the  sand,  and  was 
soon  beyond  the  breakers,  clearing  the  placid  surface 
of  the  sea  with  long,  sweeping  strokes. 

The  sunlight  sparkled  brilliantly  upon  the  broken 
crests  of  the  waves,  and  gave  warmth  and  color  to  the 
gray  tones  of  the  rocky  cliff.  He  headed  far  out  over 
the  reef,  in  an  exultation  of  spirit  born  of  the  freshness 
of  the  morning. 

After  a  time  he  turned  back  toward  the  beach.  An 
object  moving  toward  the  line  of  the  surf,  caught  his 
eye.  At  first  he  could  not  make  out  what  it  was — then 
he  realized  that  it  was  Eve,  wading  slim  and  white 
through  the  dancing  foam. 

He  called  to  her,  but  she  did  not  hear  him.  In  a  few 
moments  she  had  passed  the  line  of  breakers,  and  was 
swimming  toward  him  through  the  pellucid  sea. 

"Isn't  it  glorious !"  she  called,  shaking  the  water  in 

200 


A  LOST  PAEADISE.  201 

diamond-like  drops  from  her  hair.  "I  feel  like  a  mer- 
maid, taking  her  morning  sun  bath." 

Randall  went  to  meet  her,  and  together  they  headed 
toward  the  open  sea. 

"I  didn't  know  you  could  swim,"  he  said  presently. 

"Oh,  yes;  I  learned  it  years  ago.  Down  at — at — " 
She  hesitated,  shaking  her  head.  "Never  mind.  I  cant 
remember  where  it  was,  but  I  haven't  forgotten  how, 
have  I,  dear  ?"  She  dove  with  the  grace  of  a  sea  nymph, 
then  appeared  a  few  yards  further  out,  the  warm  green 
water  sliding  from  her  white  shoulders  as  she  rose  above 
its  surface. 

"You  certainly  haven't,"  he  said,  admiringly,  as  he 
watched  her  slender  body  flash  through  the  water. 
"We'd  better  not  go  out  any  further,"  he  said  at  length. 
"There  may  be  sharks,  you  know." 

"Do  you  think  so  ?"  She  shivered,  and  turned  back 
toward  the  beach.  He  swam  beside  her,  their  shoulders 
touching.  "Do  you  know,  dear,"  she  whispered  to  him, 
"I  am  so  happy,  this  morning,  that  it  seems  almost  too 
perfect  to  last !" 

"What  can  stop  it,  little  girl  ?" 

"I  don't  know.  Nothing,  I  hope.  But  somehow 
things  always  seem  to  happen — " 

"Come,  come !  Don't  be  superstitious.  We  love  each 
other,  and  we  are  alive  and  together.  That  is  all  the 
world  has  to  offer." 

"I  know."  She  rode  easily  over  the  first  of  the  line 
of  breakers  and  turned  toward  him  as  the  long  furrow 
of  foam  swept  toward  the  shore.  "But  I'm  afraid — 
possibly  because  I'm  so  happy.  Shall  we  go  in  now?" 


202  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

"You  go."  He  headed  seaward  again.  "I'll  be  along 
in  a  moment." 

After  a  time  he  turned,  and  saw  her,  wrapped  in  her 
white  coat,  ascending  the  rocks  toward  the  cave. 

He  swam  toward  the  beach,  with  a  song  in  his  heart. 
God  had,  indeed,  been  good  to  him,  he  felt,  in  giving 
him  this  woman's  love.  It  was  the  affection  of  which 
he  had  dreamed,  the  perfect  union  of  two  persons  who 
found  in  each  other  all  the  happiness  that  life  has  to 
offer.  What  mattered  it,  after  all,  that  they  were  ma- 
rooned here  on  this  lonely  bit  of  sand  ?  Nothing  that 
civilization  held  could  have  made  them  any  happier. 
In  fact,  Randall  doubted  whether  such  perfect  hap- 
piness as  he  now  felt  would  be  possible  in  the  material 
atmosphere  of  a  great  city.  He  dressed  with  a  thankful 
heart,  and,  clambering  up  to  their  rocky  ledge,  pro- 
ceeded to  light  the  fire  for  their  breakfast. 

They  were  to  have  a  feast  to-day — a  wedding  break- 
fast. Eve  had  already  begun  to  lay  the  table — a  slab 
of  rock,  which  rose  somewhat  above  the  level  of  the 
remainder  of  the  ledge.  There  were  a  bunch  of 
bananas,  half-a-dozen  eggs,  a  couple  of  pigeons  that 
Randall  had  knocked  over  the  afternoon  before,  and  a 
large  sea  mullet  that  he  had  speared  at  the  mouth  of 
the  little  creek.  About  the  table  she  had  placed  masses 
of  pink  and  white  flowers,  and  a  half-dozen  large  palm- 
leaves,  for  plates. 

Randall  observed  ner  preparations  with  a  happy 
smile. 

"A  better  breakfast,"  he  remarked,  "and  a  better 
appetite  than  all  the  money  in  the  world  could  buy." 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  203 

She  came  over  to  him,  and  kissed  him. 

"What  we  have,  Dick,  is  too  precious  to  be  bought, 
at  any  price.  I  only  hope  it  will  never  be  taken  away 
from  us." 

The  recurrence  of  her  thought  worried  him. 

"Why  do  you  say  that,  dear?  Nothing  can  ever 
change  our  love." 

"Who  knows?"  She  gazed  off  toward  the  horizon. 
"Some  day,  a  ship  will  come,  and  then — " 

"And  then  we  will  refuse  to  be  rescued,"  he  cried, 
gaily.  "Come,  sit  down  and  eat  your  breakfast.  We 
are  going  to  explore,  to-day." 

"Explore  ?" 

"Yes.  I  mean  to  find  out  whether  this  place  is  an 
island,  or  not." 

"I  hope  it  is.    Don't  you  ?" 

"Yes — and  uninhabited.  It  would  be  rather  unfor- 
tunate to  run  into  a  village  of  head-hunters."  < 

"Head-hunters!"  She  shivered.  "Do  you  think  it 
possible,  Dick?" 

"Hardly,  or  we  should  have  seen  evidences  of  their 
presence,  along  shore.  Come,  get  your  bow  and  arrows, 
and  we'll  take  a  look  about." 

They  ascended  the  path  that  led  to  the  brow  of  the 
cliff,  and  soon  stood  upon  its  highest  point.  Before 
them  the  sea  extended  northward  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach.  To  right  and  left  the  beach  curved  away  toward 
the  south.  Behind  them  lay  the  jungle,  thick  with 
blossoms,  cool,  shady  and  green.  The  hum  of  a  myriad 
insects  sounded  from  its  depths.  The  chatter  of  the 
birds  along  the  edge  of  the  forest  was  incessant.  Kan- 


204  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

dall  strove  to  look  landward,  beyond  the  wall  of  green 
that  marked  the  southern  edge  of  the  plateau;  but  the 
waving  palms,  the  tall  bloodwood  trees,  the  thick  screen 
of  the  tropic  foliage,  blocked  his  view. 

A  tall  gaunt  tree,  showing  along  its  bark  the  rip  of 
the  lightning  stroke  that  had  killed  it,  rose  skyward  not 
far  from  where  they  stood.  Randall  went  toward  it,  and 
threw  his  spear  upon  the  ground. 

"I'm  going  to  climb  this,  dear,"  he  said,  "and  see 
whether  or  not  I  can  get  a  view  over  the  tops  of  the 
trees  to  the  south." 

The  many  gnarled  branches  of  the  tree  rendered  the 
climb  an  easy  one.  In  five  minutes  he  had  reached  a 
point  some  forty  feet  above  the  ground.  Eve  called  to 
him  anxiously,  fearing  lest  he  might  slip  and  fall. 

"I'm  all  right,"  he  called  back  to  her.  "I  can  see 
the  ocean  on  the  other  side.  It  goes  all  around  us.  We 
are  on  an  island." 

"If  we  want  to  be  rescued,"  he  said,  when  he  had 
descended  and  rejoined  her,  "we  could  put  a  signal  of 
distress  on  the  top  of  that  tree,  and  it  would  be  visible 
for  ten  miles  in  any  direction." 

"Do  you  want  to  put  one  up  ?"  she  asked  him  gravely. 

"Not  unless  you  do." 

"Suppose  we  wait.  When  we  get  tired  of  it  here, 
if  we  ever  do,  we'll  run  up  a  signal  of  distress." 

"Then  we  are  likely  to  stay  here  for  the  rest  of 
our  lives,"  he  laughed.  "What  do  you  say  to  making 
a  trip  through  the  jungle?  The  beach  on  the  other 
side  looks  interesting.  I  don't  believe  it's  more  than 
three  miles  away." 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  205 

"I'm  ready.  And  we  may  find  some  cocoamit 
trees." 

The  ground  sloped  downward  toward  the  edge  of 
the  forest,  and  in  a  few  moments  they  were  making 
their  way  through  the  rough,  close-growing  under- 
brush. 

The  passage  proved  anything  but  easy.  The 
thousands  of  creepers  and  tough  interlacing  vines 
threatened  to  trip  them  at  every  step,  while  the  luxuriant 
growth  of  bushes,  the  tall  and  close-set  forest  grasses  and 
ferns  rose  at  times  above  their  heads,  and  made  it 
almost  impossible  to  tell  in  what  direction  they  were 
going. 

After  some  two  hours  of  struggling  they  emerged 
upon  a  sandy  slope  that  led  down  to  a  long,  curving 
white  beach.  A  grove  of  cocoanut  trees  attracted  Ran- 
dall's attention;  he  recognized  them  by  the  clusters  of 
great  green  nuts,  which  were  visible  through  the  thick 
foliage. 

"Isn't  that  lucky  ?"  he  cried.  "!NVw  we  will  have 
something  besides  bananas  for  dessert." 

To  get  the  nuts,  however,  was  somewhat  of  a  problem. 
The  tall,  smooth  trunks  of  the  trees  towered  seventy  or 
eighty  feet  in  the  air,  without  a  limb,  except  the 
feathery  cluster  of  branches  at  the  top.  Randall  looked 
up  and  laughed. 

"I'm  afraid  I  can't  manage  it,"  he  said. 

"Of  course,  you  can't."  Eve  put  her  arm  through 
his,  and  held  him  close.  "I'm  not  going  to  run  the  risk 
of  losing  my  husband,  just  for  a  few  cocoanuts." 

The  fates,  however,  were  more  kind  than  they  had  an- 


206  A  LOST  PAEADISE. 

ticipated.  One  of  the  trees,  standing  somewhat  apart 
from  the  others,  had  been  uprooted,  no  doubt,  by  the 
typhoon  that  had  swept  them  upon  the  island,  and  it 
lay  prone  amidst  a  thick  growth  of  underbrush  and 
ferns. 

A  number  of  the  nuts  still  clung  to  the  crown  of  the 
tree,  while  many  more  were  scattered  about  the  ground 
as  a  result  of  its  fall.  Randall  took  up  one  of  them, 
and,  after  stripping  off  the  fibrous  green  husk,  broke  it 
open  with  a  stone.  The  interior  was  lined  with  a  soft 
creamy  moss,  within  which  lay  half  a  pint  of  milk.  He 
handed  a  portion  of  the  nut  to  Eve,  who  declared  it 
delicious. 

Two  more  of  the  nuts  he  carried  with  him.  They 
decided  not  to  undertake  again  the  rough  journey 
through  the  woods,  but  instead,  to  make  their  way  back 
along  the  beach.  It  was  much  further,  he  knew,  but 
the  easy  walking  made  it  preferable. 

It  was  a  hot  and  tiresome  walk,  and  before  they  were 
half-way  back,  Randall  found  the  two  cocoanuts  a  heavy 
burden.  Eve  relieved  him  of  one  of  them,  from  time 
to  time,  but  he  felt  rather  tired  out  when  they  at  last 
reached  the  cave. 

They  spent  the  afternoon  in  fitting  up  the  interior 
of  their  new  home.  Randall  procured  from  the  woods 
a  number  of  long,  thin  saplings,  and  also  some  shorter 
and  thicker  pieces,  and  constructed  the  rough  frame- 
work of  a  bed,  lashing  the  pieces  together  with  the  re- 
mainder of  a  rope  that  the  life-buoy  had  provided.  He 
also  managed  to  make  a  rickety  chair,  for  Eve  to  sit  in, 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  207 

The  slab  of  rock  on  the  ledge  outside  the  door  provided 
a  thoroughly  satisfactory  table. 

The  problem  of  light  inside  the  cave  at  night  was  one 
which  he  sought  in  vain  to  solve.  He  had  heard  that  from 
the  liver  of  the  shark  a  rich  oil  could  be  obtained,  but 
so  far  he  had  been  unable  to  obtain  the  shark  although 
he  saw  many  of  them  skirting  the  outer  edge  of  the 
reef.  To  advance  against  them  in  the  water,  armed 
only  with  his  spear,  would  have  been  useless.  He 
lived  in  the  hope  that  sometime  the  sea  might  cast  one 
up,  the  possible  victim  of  a  marine  combat  to  the  death. 

Their  life,  after  moving  into  the  cave,  was  golden  with 
happiness  and  peace.  The  fierce  heat  of  the  tropic 
sun  was  tempered  by  the  cool  breeze  that  arose  every 
afternoon,  and  swept  in  from  the  west,  fresh  with  the 
smell  of  the  sea.  Flowers  surrounded  them  constantly. 
Eve  was  extravagantly  fond  of  them,  and  made  the  cave 
a  bower  of  blooms  from  the  luxuriant  growths  of  the 
jungle.  The  majority  of  the  blossoms  was  unknown  to 
them,  but  some  they  recognized,  particularly  great 
orchids,  deep  gold  in  color,  and  others  pink,  like  living 
coral. 

Eandall  had  added  a  number  of  new  dishes  to  their 
somewhat  limited  bill  of  fare.  In  the  course  of  fre- 
quent expeditions  for  cocoanuts  to  the  grove  on  the 
opposite  shore  of  the  island,  he  found  a  new  fruit,  which 
he  judged  to  be  a  mango,  although  his  acquaintance 
with  this  tropic  delicacy  had  heretofore  been  limited 
to  seeing  specimens  in  the  windows  of  Broadway  fruit 
shops.  Whether  mangoes  or  not,  they  found  in  these 
orange-colored  masses,  with  their  sweet  and  pungent 


208  A  LOST  PAEADISE. 

pulp,  a  refreshing  change  from  the  rather  tasteless 
bananas,  which  had  served  for  so  long  as  their  sole 
delicacy. 

A  bed  of  oysters  on  the  reef  facing  the  cave  varied 
their  diet  of  fish  and  pigeons.  Eandall,  eager  to  add  to 
their  conveniences,  managed,  after  considerable  search, 
to  find  a  bed  of  yellow  clay  along  the  side  of  the  plateau, 
and  from  this,  with  painstaking  effort,  succeeded  at 
last  in  modeling  some  very  serviceable  earthen  pots. 
They  were  crooked  and  ill  shapen,  and  when  he  had 
dried  them  in  the  sun,  and  came  to  burn  them  in  a 
wood  fire,  three-quarters  of  them  cracked  and  fell  to 
pieces,  but  several  whole  ones  remained,  and  in  these 
they  were  able  to  stew  their  oysters,  and  fish,  instead  of 
always  broiling  them  over  the  coals. 

During  the  early  part  of  September,  the  long,  wet 
week  of  a  monsoon  kept  them  almost  continuously  within 
the  cave.  Randall  found  that  a  fire  of  certain  varieties 
of  hardwood  could  be  maintained  just  inside  the  cave 
mouth  without  creating  much  smoke,  and  their  rocky 
home  kept  them  dry  and  comfortable  during  the  rain. 
Finding  that  Eve  was  fond  of  chess,  he  scratched  a 
board  on  the  cave  floor,  and  with  bits  of  shell,  and 
wooden  figures  laboriously  carved  with  his  clasp-knife, 
improvised  a  set  of  men,  which  gave  them  constant 
amusement  during  the  dreary  days. 

After  the  monsoon,  another  period  of  tropic  heat 
and  calm  ensued.  The  equatorial  sun  kept  them  indoors, 
or  among  the  shadows  of  the  jungle,  during  the  midday 
heat ;  but  the  long  soft  evenings  amply  repaid  them  for 
these  temporary  seclusions. 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  209 

Randall  had  never  dreamed  that  the  stars  could 
shine  so  vividly,  or  the  night  sky  seem  so  near.  Often, 
when  the  beach  shone  white  and  clear  in  the  moonlight, 
they  went  down  to  the  sands,  and  enjoyed  a  night  dip 
in  the  surf.  At  other  times,  although  there  was  no 
moon,  the  stars  enveloped  them  in  a  soft,  yet  brilliant, 
radiance — they  sat  upon  their  rocky  portico  and  talked 
of  the  future,  and  the  past. 

He  had  told  Eve  all  about  his  unsuccessful  efforts 
in  ~New  York,  and  often  pointed  out  to  her  the  injustice 
he  felt  he  had  done  her,  in  making  her  his  wife,  upon 
such  faint  material  prospects;  but  at  these  times  she 
smiled  contentedly,  and  kissed  him  with  a  fervor  that 
left  no  room  for  doubt  as  to  her  entire  satisfaction  with 
conditions  as  they  existed. 

"If  we  ever  do  leave  here,  dear,"  she  said,  "and  I 
suppose  that  some  day  we  shall,  we  will  first  be  married, 
of  course,  since  the  world  will  require  that  of  us,  and 
then  we  will  find  out  who  I  am."  She  laughed  whimsi- 
cally. "I  may  be  a  rich  heiress,  you  know,  or  a  princess 
in  disguise." 

Randall  joined  in  her  laugh,  although  his  mind 
was  by  no  means  at  rest. 

"I'd  far  rather  you  were  neither,"  he  said.  "I  don't 
want  to  live  on  you,  you  know.  When  I  go  back  to 
civilization,  and  as  you  say,  we  will  probably  do  so, 
sometime,  I  mean  to  again  take  up  the  work  I've  been 
trying  to  do.  I'll  be  well  and  strong  then,  and  I'll  have 
you,  dear,  to  help  me,  and  I  feel  that  under  those  cir- 
cumstances I  couldn't  fail." 

"Dick,"  Eve  asked,  after  a  time,  "why  do  you  say 


210  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

that  sometime  we  will  go  back  to  civilization?  Why 
do  I?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  suppose  it  is  something  inborn, 
some  inherited  call  of  work,  achievement,  ambition, 
that  we  can't  shake  off  if  we  would." 

"Yet  we  are  perfectly  happy  here,  aren't  we  ?" 

"Perfectly." 

"Then  doesn't  it  seem  absurd  to  leave  it  ?  What, 
after  all,  can  the  world  offer  us,  that  we  haven't,  here  ? 
Did  all  the  things  you  had,  in  your  other  life,  make  you 
happy  ?  Did  you  ever  enjoy  your  best  meal  in  a  New 
York  restaurant  half  as  much  as  you  have  our  oysters, 
and  fish,  and  fruit?  Would  it  make  us  a  bit  happier 
to  sleep  in  a  brass  bed  instead  of  on  our  sweet-smelling 
grass  ?  Would  the  sky  be  as  bright  in  smoky  London,  or 
the  air  as  life-giving  and  fresh  ?  Wouldn't  we  miss  the 
freedom,  the  wonderful  joy  of  living,  that  nature  is 
giving  us  now  ?" 

He  nodded,  gravely. 

"All  those  things  we  would  miss,  and  the  things — the 
physical  things — that  we  would  get  in  return  would 
not  compensate  us;  but  it  is  the  mind  that  starves  in 
such  a  life  as  this." 

She  glanced  at  him  quickly,  then  came  over,  and, 
kneeling  beside  him,  pressed  her  body  against  his. 

"Are  you  tired,  dear,  already?" 

He  swept  her  into  his  arms,  and  kissed  her. 

"My  girl,  my  precious  girl,  how  can  you  ask  me  that  ? 
I  am  so  happy  that  I  scarcely  dare  even  to  think  of 
such  a  thing  as  going  away,  for  fea.r  something  might 
happen  to  take  my  happiness,  from  me.  But  we  were 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  211 

born  with  the  minds  of  civilized  people.  In  time,  in  all 
the  years  to  come,  the  mind  hunger  will  grow  and  grow, 
and  even  the  lovely  peace  of  nature  will  fail  to  satisfy 
it.  The  people  who  can  live  forever  under  the  con- 
ditions, the  island  savages,  have  the  minds  of  children. 
Eating,  sleeping,  basking  in  the  sun — those  things 
satisfy  them.  We  are  not  like  that.  Our  demands  are 
greater.  Sometimes  people — civilized  people  like  our- 
selves— stay  all  their  lives  in  the  jungle ;  but  their  minds 
slowly  die.  They  become  more  and  more  sensual — more 
like  animals.  They  drug  their  minds  with  the  joy  of 
the  senses,  and  after  a  time  they  become  beasts." 

Eve  shuddered  in  his  arms,  and  seemed  alrao&t 
frightened  by  what  he  had  said. 

"You  are  becoming  tired,  already,  dear,"  she 
whispered.  "I  am  so  happy  that  I  could  go  on  like 
this  forever.  I  suppose  that  is  because  I  am  just  a 
woman.  You  are  not  content  just  to  be  happy.  You 
want  to  live,  to  accomplish  things.  I  understand.  Per- 
haps I  am  glad,  too,  dear,  for  I  love  you,  and  wish  all 
things  for  you.  But  I  am  afraid — afraid  that  the 
world  will  some  day  take  you  from  me,  with  its  duties, 
its  responsibilities,  its  cares.  Then  I  should  feel  sorry 
that  we  had  ever  gone  away — that  we  had  not  remained 
in  our  Paradise." 

Eandall  quieted  her  fears  with  his  kisses. 

"After  all,  dear,"  he  laughed,  "we  are  troubling  our- 
selves rather  needlessly.  For  all  we  know,  we  may 
wait  years  before  a  vessel  ever  comes  near  enough  to 
see  our  flag."  He  pointed  to  a  streamer  of  white,  the 
long  canvas  covering  of  the  life-buoy,  which  he  had 


212  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

attached  the  day  before  to  one  of  the  topmost  limbs  of 
the  tree  on  the  brow  of  the  cliff. 

She  knelt,  holding  him  close  for  a  long  time,  her 
eyes  searching  the  sweeping  circle  of  the  sea. 

"Somehow,  dear,"  she  said,  "I  feel  that  trouble  is 
coming  to  us — from  off  there — out  of  the  sea.  I  can't 
explain  it.  Perhaps  I  am  just  silly  and  nervous  to- 
night but;  I  am  afraid — afraid!" 

"No  trouble  can  come  to  us,  sweetheart,  so  long  as 
we  love  each  other.  Come — it  is  time  you  were  in  bed." 

He  lay  for  a  long  time  that  night,  holding  Eve  close 
to  his  breast,  and  listening  to  the  murmur  of  the  surf 
along  the  reef.  She  slept,  peacefully,  in  his  arms,  but  to 
him  sleep  would  not  come.  The  waves  spoke  to  him, 
gently,  insistently,  of  other  shores,  of  harbors  thick  with 
masts  and  funnels  of  ships,  of  hurrying,  crowded  streets, 
of  brilliant  lights,  of  life,  roaring  jubilantly  along 
toward  the  goal  of  success.  Eve  had  been  right.  Happy, 
supremely  happy  as  he  was,  he  still  heard  in  his  ears 
the  call  of  the  world.  It  was  because  of  it,  the  day 
before,  that  he  had  climbed  the  tree,  and  flung  the  white 
signal  flag  to  the  breeze. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

FOR  many  days  the  flag  had  fluttered  in  the  breeze 
upon  the  cliff  top,  and  Randall  and  his  companion  had 
almost  forgotten  that  it  was  there.  Once  Eve  had 
referred  to  it  as  "the  white  flag  of  surrender."  Randall 
was  very  near  to  taking  it  down  that  day,  but,  when  he 
mounted  the  top  of  the  bluff  to  do  so,  she  ran  after 
him  and  stopped  him. 

"I  know  you  are  right,"  she  exclaimed.  "I  did  not 
mean  what  I  said  as  a  reproach.  Let  it  stay." 

They  did  not  speak  of  the  matter  again — in  fact  a 
new  and  interesting  problem  confronted  them — the 
problem  of  clothes. 

The  thin  and  fragile  things  they  had  worn  when  the 
sea  cast  them  up  to  safety,  had,  by  reason  of  numberless 
washings,  as  well  as  the  wear  and  tear  of  their  daily 
life,  become  sadly  dilapidated.  They  looked,  Eve  laugh- 
ingly said,  like  a  pair  of  scarecrows,  and  no  means 
seemed  at  hand,  for  replenishing  their  wardrobe. 

Randall  had  found,  during  his  expeditions  to  the 
cocoanut  grove,  the  burrows  of  a  number  of  robber  crabs, 
which  ascended  the  trees,  and  after  ripping  the  rough 
fibrous  husk  from  the  nuts,  punctured  the  soft  "eyes" 
with  their  claws,  and  devoured  the  contents.  These 

213 


214  A  LOST  PABADISE. 

crabs,  he  soon  found,  lined  their  burrows  with  great 
quantities  of  the  shredded  husk.  It  resembled  the  ravel- 
ings  of  a  cocoa-fibre  rug,  and  he  suggested  to  Eve  the 
possibility  of  utilizing  it  for  the  making  of  a  rough 
sort  of  cloth. 

He  knew  nothing  of  even  the  most  primitive  form  of 
loom,  but  his  natural  ingenuity  enabled  him,  after 
numberless  experiments,  to  construct,  at  last,  a  rough 
wooden  framework,  over  which  Eve  laboriously  wove  a 
fabric  of  the  long,  pliable  fibres.  In  this  way,  after 
some  weeks  of  work,  she  managed  to  produce  enough 
of  a  coarse  rough  material  to  make  for  herself  a  skirt, 
and  for  Kandall  a  pair  of  clumsy  knickerbockers.  The 
needle  that  he  had  made  from  one  of  her  hairpins 
enabled  her  to  sew  the  cloth  into  shape. 

During  these  weeks,  they  said  no  more,  concerning  a 
possible  return  to  civilization.  Randall  did  not  refer 
to  the  matter,  fearing  that  he  might  hurt  Eve's  feelings, 
and  she  did  not  speak  of  it  again,  although  she  thought 
about  it  continually. 

Often  she  would  observe  him,  in  some  fit  of  abstrac- 
tion, gazing  into  the  sunset,  or  watching  the  northern 
stars,  and  she  realized  what  their  message  to  him  must 
be.  At  other  times  she  would  find  him  scratching  rude 
notes  on  bits  of  bark  with  a  quill  pen  he  had  made,  and 
she  knew  that  the  spirit  of  unrest  was  strong  within  him, 
that  his  work,  his  ambition,  was  calling. 

She  might  have  better  understood  these  moods,  had 
her, own  past  life  drawn  her  thoughts  from  the  present, 
but  it  still  lay  before  her,  a  blank  page. 

And  then  occurred  something,  which,  in  the  course 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  215 

of  a  few  moments,  desolated  their  Paradise,  and  changed 
the  whole  course  of  existence  for  them  both. 

They  had  gone  one  afternoon  to  the  cocoanut  grove, 
for  the  purpose  of  securing  an  additional  supply  of  the 
cocoa-fibre.  Randall  had  broken  open  several  of  the 
burrows  of  the  robber  crabs,  and  collected  a  large 
quantity  of  the  lining,  and  they  were  resting  after  their 
labors  until  the  cool  of  the  evening,  before  attempting  the 
long  walk  home.  About  four  o'clock  they  noticed  a 
perceptible  increase  in  the  force  of  the  wind,  and  strong 
indications  in  the  western  sky  of  the  coming  of  a 
storm. 

The  clouds  raced  up  from  the  north-west  with  as- 
tonishing rapidity,  and  they  decided  to  leave  the  bale 
of  cocoa-fibre  behind,  and  make  their  way  back  to  the 
cave  by  means  of  the  shorter  route  through  the  jungle, 
before  the  storm  broke. 

They  had  progressed  about  three-quarters  of  the  dis- 
tance, when  Randall,  who  was  walking  some  fifteen 
or  twenty  feet  in  Eve's  rear,  saw  a  dead  limb,  which 
was  swaying  wildly  in  the  heavy  breeze,  break  off  short, 
and  pitch  across  her  path. 

He  called  to  her,  and  at  the  sound  of  his  voice  she 
turned.  The  moment  was  an  unfortunate  one — the 
heavy  branch  crashed  downward,  tearing  through  the 
surrounding  foliage,  and  struck  her  a  glancing  blow 
on  the  head. 

Its  weight  was  considerable,  and  the  force  of  its 
fall  knocked  the  girl  to  the  ground. 

Randall  sprang  forward,  and  to  his  dismay  found 
tliat  she  was  insensible.  The  heavy  clouds  that  had  been 


216  A  LOST  PAEADISE. 

piling  up  in  the  western  sky  for  the  past  hour  promised 
an  early  downpour.  He  lifted  the  girl's  unconscious 
figure  in  his  arms,  and  stumbled  hurriedly  toward  the 
edge  of  the  jungle. 

A  considerable  distance  still  separated  them  from  the 
cave.  Randall,  strong  and  rugged  as  he  was  from  his 
active  life,  found  difficulty  in  supporting  his  burden. 
Over  and  over  he  was  forced  to  stop  and  rest,  lowering 
the  girl  to  the  ground,  and  kneeling  beside  her,  panting 
from  his  exertions. 

The  falling  limb  had  cut  an  ugly  gash  across  the  left 
side  of  her  head.  He  tried  in  vain  to  stanch  the  flow 
of  blood  with  bits  of  moss  and  leaves.  When  he  at  last 
staggered  down  to  the  platform  before  the  mouth  of  the 
cave,  he  was  thoroughly  exhausted,  and  Eve  was  still 
unconscious. 

He  arrived  just  as  the  rain  swept  down  upon  them 
in  a  blinding  swirl.  He  laid  her  upon  their  bed,  and 
washed  the  blood  from  her  face  and  neck. 

Her  cheeks  were  white,  her  eyes  closed.  Randall,  in 
a  frenzy  of  fear,  thought  at  first  that  she  was  dead.  He 
forced  some  water  between  her  lips,  and  then,  unable  to 
do  anything  further,  lay  down  beside  her,  and  held  her 
in  his  arms. 

The  fury  of  the  storm  soon  passed.  In  the  course  of 
an  hour,  the  skies  were  once  more  clear,  and  the  low 
rays  of  the  setting  sun  turned  to  gold  the  pools  of  water 
on  the  rocky  floor  of  their  porch,  and  illuminated 
faintly  the  interior  of  the  cave.  Eve  had  not  yet 
returned  to  consciousness. 

All  through  the  night,  Randall  held  her  close  to 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  217 

his  heart,  torn  with  a  terrible  fear  lest  the  daylight  bring 
no  light  to  her  eyes.  Toward  morning  she  became 
restless,  and  moaned  ceaselessly  in  her  sleep  words 
that  to  Randall  meant  nothing. 

When  the  light  without  told  him  that  the  day  had 
come,  he  rose,  and,  with  some  cold  water  from  the 
stream,  washed  her  fevered  face,  and  began  to  chafe  her 
hands.  She  shivered  slightly  in  the  cool  of  the  dawn, 
and  he  again  lay  down  beside  her,  and,  clasping  her  in 
his  arms,  strove  to  warm  her  body  with  the  warmth 
of  his  own. 

And  then,  just  as  the  brilliance  of  the  dawn  began 
to  flood  the  interior  of  the  cave,  she  opened  her  eyes, 
and  gazed  with  an  uncomprehending  stare  into  his 
face. 

Randall  rose  at  once,  and  grasped  a  gourd  filled  with 
fresh  water.  Coming  over  beside  her,  almost  un- 
conscious of  her  terrified  gaze,  he  tried  to  press  the 
cup  to  her  lips. 

She  pushed  it  aside,  still  staring  at  him,  in  a 
frightened  way. 

"Where  am  I  ?"  she  gasped,  faintly. 

"Here — here  with  me,  dear,"  he  cried,  kneeling 
beside  her,  and  attempting  to  take  her  in  his  arms. 

She  drew  away,  her  eyes,  fixed  on  his,  filled  with 
dread. 

"The  typhoon !"  she  gasped.  "I  was  swept  overboard. 
What  has  happened  ?" 

"We  have  been  here  ever  since  then,  dear/'  he 
whispered.  "You  are  my  wife  now.  Don't  you 
remember  ?" 


218  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

She  rose  in  the  bed  as  he  spoke,  her  face  convulsed 
with  terror. 

"Your  wife!"  she  screamed.  "Your  wife!" 

Randall  was  unable  to  speak.  The  look  in  her  eyes — 
the  expression  of  disgust,  of  horror,  which  swept  over 
her  face — left  him  silent. 

"We  were  washed  overboard — into  the  sea,"  the  girl 
went  on.  "That  is  all  I  remember.  We  clung  to  a 
life-buoy — for  hours.  You  were  one  of  the  sailors  of 
the  ship.  You  helped  me.  Oh,  God — you  don't  mean 
— "  She  cowered  away  from  him.  "How  long  have 
we  been  here  ?" 

"Four  months.  We — we  have  loved  each  other  so 
— we  have  been  so  happy !  Don't  you  remember  ?" 

She  shrank  away  from  him — back  against  the  wall 
of  the  cave. 

"Your  wife!  God!  God!  You — you  have  done 
this — to  me!"  She  stared  at  him,  her  eyes  burning 
into  his,  gasping  for  breath. 

Randall  rose  from  his  knees.  His  whole  world 
seemed  crumbling  about  him. 

"We  have  lived  here — together — all  that  time.  You 
said  you  loved  me.  I  do  not  understand." 

Eve  came  toward  him,  pale  with  fury. 

"I  don't  know  who  you  are,"  she  cried,  "but  I 
hate  you  for  what  you  have  done  to  me.  Go — go  away ! 
I  can't  bear  to  look  at  you.  A  common  sailor !  Go — 
go— go!" 

He  staggered  back  toward  the  doorway  of  the  cave. 

"You — you  said  you  loved  me.  Eve — listen  to  me — 
please—" 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  219 

"No I  I  never  want  to  see  you  again.  Oh,  God! 
What  shall  I  do— what  shall  I  do  ?"  She  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands,  and  leaned  heavily  against  the 
wall. 

"Eve,  please,  listen  to  me — you — you  couldn't  remem- 
ber who  you  were — but — you — you  said  you  loved 
me— " 

She  turned  on  him  scornfully,  her  eyes  blazing  with 
anger. 

"Loved  you — you — a  deck-hand !  God !  And  you 
took  advantage  of  my  helplessness !  You — you  brought 
me — me — to  this  I  Go !  I  can't  bear  to  look  at  you — 
you  have  broken  my  heart." 

He  once  more  attempted  to  approach  her,  whispering 
words  of  love,  but  she  repulsed  him. 

"If  you  do  not  leave  me  at  once,"  she  cried,  "I  will 
throw  myself  into  the  sea." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

RANDALL  staggered  through  the  door  of  the  cave, 
and  stood  upon  the  ledge  of  rock  outside.  The  whole 
world  appeared  to  have  turned  black.  The  sky,  the 
sea,  the  vivid  sunshine  on  the  rocks,  seemed  sinister 
and  forbidding. 

Unable  to  understand  the  blow  that  had  come  to 
him,  his  mind  groped  toward  practical  things.  He  drew 
together  the  embers  of  their  fire  of  the  day  before,  and, 
after  some  difficulty,  managed  to  set  them  alight.  Then 
he  rushed  off  into  the  jungle,  to  get  fruit  for  their 
breakfast. 

In  half  an  hour  he  had  returned.  A  glance  inside 
the  cave  showed  hime  Eve  lying  on  the  bed,  sobbing, 
her  face  turned  toward  the  wall.  He  arranged  the 
mangoes  he  had  brought  upon  the  stone  slab,  and  went 
down  to  the  edge  of  the  stream. 

Here  he  drew  from  a  pool  a  pair  of  fish  that  he  had 
caught  and  cleaned  the  day  before.  They  had  been 
suspended  in  the  cold  water,  by  means  of  a  slender 
withe. 

He  returned  to  the  ledge,  and  broiled  the  two  fish 
over  the  coals.  Then  he  called  to  her  very  gently. 

"Won't  you  come  out  now,  dear,  and  have  your 
breakfast?" 

220 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  221 

She  did  not  reply.  Presently  he  went  to  the  cave 
door,  and  called  again.  There  was  no  answer,  and, 
glancing  in,  he  saw  her  crouching  against  the  wall,  on 
the  far  side  of  the  bed,  apparently  praying. 

Eandall  uttered  a  groan,  and  turned  helplessly  away. 
There  seemed  nothing  at  all  that  he  could  do.  Seizing 
his  spear,  which  stood  leaning  against  the  face  of  the 
rock,  he  went  up  the  slope  toward  the  forest. 

All  the  morning  he  wandered  aimlessly  about,  unable 
to  think  coherently.  Over  and  over  he  made  up  his 
mind  to  throw  himself  over  the  side  of  the  cliff,  but 
each  time  he  realized  that  Eve  was  alone  and  helpless, 
that  without  him  she  would  be  unable  to  exist. 

Toward  noon  he  came  across  a  flock  of  pigeons, 
clustered  about  some  berry  bushes  in  the  underbrush. 
He  hurled  a  bit  of  broken  limb  at  them,  and  managed 
to  bring  down  one.  With  this  he  returned  to  the  cave. 

As  he  descended  the  path  from  the  brow  of  the 
cliff,  he  saw  Eve  sitting  upon  one  of  his  improvised 
chairs,  gazing  helplessly  out  to  sea.  She  heard  him 
stumbling  down  the  slope,  and  at  once  rose  and  re- 
treated within  the  cave. 

Randall  plucked  the  bird  he  had  killed,  and  cooked 
it.  Then  he  laid  it  upon  the  slab  of  rock,  and,  finding 
that  the  water  gourd  he  had  left  for  her  breakfast  was 
nearly  empty,  he  went  down  to  the  stream,  and  refilled 
it. 

Throughout  all  this  the  girl  within  the  cave  made 
no  sound.  Randall  called  to  her  once,  pitifully,  but 
she  did  not  answer.  Again  he  plunged  into  the  forest. 


222  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

and  roamed  about  the  whole  afternoon,  a  prey  to  the 
bitterest  thoughts. 

Toward  sunset  he  returned  to  the  brow  of  the 
cliff,  and  stood  beneath  the  dead  tree  upon  which  their 
signal  of  distress  was  flying.  The  evening  breeze  blew 
it  gently  toward  the  south-east.  He  turned  from  it 
impatiently,  and  gazed  at  the  long,  restless  sea. 

After  a  moment  he  started,  and,  rubbing  his  eyes, 
looked  eagerly  westward.  A  faint  smudge  was  visible 
upon  the  horizon,  but  whether  it  was  the  smoke  from  the 
funnels  of  a  steamer,  or  merely  a  wisp  of  cloud,  he 
could  not  at  first  determine. 

The  tropic  night  fell  with  its  bewildering  suddenness, 
a  transition  from  twilight  to  deep  night  that  always 
seemed  to  him  a  miracle,  many  times  as  he  had 
watched  it.  Below  him  the  embers  of  the  fire  glowed 
dully  among  the  shadows  of  the  ledge.  Far  off  to  the 
north-west  he  saw,  where  the  wisp  of  smoke  had  been, 
a  cluster  of  twinkling  lights,  like  tiny  sparks  against 
the  deep  night  sky.  It  was  a  steamer,  and  she  was 
headed  toward  the  south-east. 

He  sprang  down  to  the  side  of  the  cliff,  and  reached 
the  ledge.  Eve  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  Seizing  a 
handful  of  sticks  from  a  pile  he  had  made  against  the 
wall  of  the  cliff,  he  cast  them  upon  the  fire.  More  and 
more  fuel  he  added — in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  flames 
were  crackling  ten  feet  into  the  air.  • 

He  heard  Eve  moving  about  within  the  cave,  but  he 
idid  not  speak  to  her,  and  she  made  no  sign.  Steadily 
he  watched  the  tiny  far-off  lights  of  the  steamer,  as 
they  grew  larger  and  larger. 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  223 

It  was  clear  that,  unless  attracted  by  his  fire,  the 
vessel  would  pass  several  miles  or  more  to  the  north- 
east of  the  island. 

Eandall  threw  on  more  fuel,  and,  standing  beside  the 
swirling  flames,  waved  a  burning  brand  about  his 
head  in  endless  fiery  circles.  He  continued  to  do  this, 
snatching  up  a  fresh  torch  as  fast  as  the  one  he  was 
waving  went  out,  keeping  an  arc  of  fire  continually 
moving  before  the  dark  face  of  the  cliff. 

He  hoped  and  prayed  that  his  signals  would  be  seen. 
To  stay  here  longer  with  Eve,  under  the  existing 
circumstances,  would  be  impossible — he  felt  sure  that 
he  would  go  mad  before  the  expiration  of  a  week. 

Whether  or  not  he  himself  would  leave  the  island 
he  had  not  yet  determined ;  but  she  must  be  rescued,  he 
knew,  in  any  event.  So  far  as  he  could  judge  from  her 
actions,  the  blow  she  had  received  had  restored  to  her 
her  memory  of  the  past,  but  in  doing  so  had  apparently 
robbed  her  of  all  recollection  of  what  had  occurred-  since 
the  moment,  on  the  night  of  the  typhoon,  when  she  had 
been  swept  ashore  through  the  breakers.  It  was  as 
though  the  machinery  of  her  mind,  like  that  of  a 
watch,  had  been  stopped,  by  the  blow  she  had  received 
on  that  night,  and  had  now  been  set  going  again  at  the 
precise  point  at  which  it  had  left  off,  with  the  inter- 
vening months  a  blank.  Now  that  all  memory  of  their 
life  together,  their  love,  had  been  thus  obliterated,  she 
must  inevitably  regard  him  as  merely  the  rough, 
bearded  sailor  whom  she  had  noticed  on  board  The 
Batavia,  and  who  had  shared  with  her  the  perils  of 
their  night  in  the  storm. 


224  A  LOST  PAEADISE. 

She  awoke  to  consciousness  to  find  herself  in  his 
arms,  to  feel  that  this  man — this  common  deck-hand — 
had  made  her  his  property,  his  plaything.  All  that 
Randall  had  told  her  of  his  past,  of  his  position  in  life, 
had  gone  from  her  with  her  love.  She  was  quite 
evidently  horrified  by  the  merest  sight  of  him,  unwilling 
for  an  instant  to  listen  to  any  explanations  he  might 
have  to  offer,  and  determined,  could  she  possibly  avoid 
doing  so,  never  to  see  him  again.  It  was  a  situation 
with  which  he  felt  himself  unable  to  cope. 

The  coming  of  the  vessel  at  this  juncture  seemed 
providential.  If  his  signals  were  seen,  and  a  boat 
were  sent  ashore,  Eve,  at  least,  would  be  saved.  He 
did  not  feel  so  certain  about  himself.  He  was  not  at 
all  sure  that  he  wanted  to  leave  the  island  with  her. 
How  could  she  bear  the  association,  the  daily  inter- 
course with  him,  which  many  days  on  shipboard  would 
entail  ?  How  could  he  bear  it  ?  She  would  avoid  him 
completely,  and  yet  his  presence  would  distress  her, 
cause  her  to  suffer,  as  hers  would  cause  him  to  suffer. 
As  he  watched  the  on-coming  lights  of  the  steamer,  he 
could  not  see  how  either  of  them  would  be  able  to  endure 
it. 

His  fire  began  to  burn  low.  He  piled  an  armful 
of  sticks  upon  it,  and  renewed  his  signaling.  So  far  he 
was  unable  to  determine  whether  it  had  been  seen  or 
not.  With  smoke-begrimed  face  and  aching  arms  he 
continued  to  swing  the  fiery  brands  about  his  head, 
praying  that  his  efforts  might  not  prove  unavailing. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

RANDALL  had  continued  his  signals  to  the  passing 
steamer  for  over  half  an  hour,  and  he  had  almost  come 
to  the  conclusion  that  they  had  not  been  seen,  when 
suddenly  he  saw  that  the  vessel  had  stopped.  The 
cluster  of  lights  that  marked  her  progress  now  became 
stationary,  instead  of  moving  steadily  toward  the  east. 

He  redoubled  his  efforts,  swinging  the  blazing 
branches  about  his  head  incessantly,  in  spite  of  his 
aching  arms  and  scorched  face.  Thought  of  himself 
had  ceased — he  desired  only  that  Eve  might  be  saved — 
Eve,  his  wife,  whose  name,  even,  he  did  not  know. 

After  a  long  time  he  observed,  far  off  on  the  black 
surface  of  the  water,  a  single  light,  which  crept  toward 
the  shore  with  exasperating  slowness.  Presently,  the 
regular  rhythmic  beat  of  oars  came  to  his  ears.  He 
flung  away  his  signal  torch,  and  hurried  down  to  the 
shore. 

The  boat  came  steadily  on,  heading  directly  toward 
the  point  where  he  stood.  Randall  saw  that  its  oc- 
cupants were  guided  by  the  light  of  his  fire,  which  still 
blazed  feebly  upon  the  rocky  shelf  above  his  head.  He 
called  loudly,  "Boat  ahoy!"  and  an  answering,  "Ahoy!" 
boomed  back  to  him  above  the  roar  of  the  surf. 

225 


226  A  LOST  PAEADISE. 

In  a  moment  the  black  hulk  of  the  boat  loomed 
through  the  darkness,  close  in  shore ;  then  it  was  swiftly 
driven  through  the  low  surf,  and  beached  upon  the  sand. 
Four  men  sprang  out,  and  ran  the  boat  up  on  the  beach, 
beyond  the  line  of  the  breakers.  Then  a  fifth  stepped 
out,  a  lantern  in  one  hand,  a  revolver  in  the  other. 

"What's  wanted  here?"  he  demanded,  in  rasping 
tones. 

Randall  went  up  to  him  at  once.  The  sound  of 
the  man's  voice,  gruff  and  uncompromising  as  it  was, 
filled  him  with  delight.  He  had  heard  no  other,  save 
Eve's,  for  many  months.  Through  this  bearded  figure 
standing  on  the  beach  there  seemed  to  speak  the  voice  of 
the  great  outside  world,  calling  him  back  to  his  work. 

His  enthusiasm,  however,  was  but  momentary.  He 
had  scarcely  taken  half-a-dozen  steps,  when  the  recollec- 
tion of  Eve's  attitude  toward  him  swept  away  his  hopes? 

"We've  been  cast  away  here,  on  this  island,  for  four 
months,"  he  replied,  dully. 

"Who's  we  ?"  asked  the  man. 

"Myself,  and  a  young  woman.  She's  up  there,  in  a 
cave  in  the  rocks."  He  indicated  the  ledge  above  them. 
"I'll  bring  her  down."  In  a  moment  he  had  turned  and 
begun  to  climb  the  rough  steps  that  led  to  the  shelf 
of  rock,  leaving  the  rescue  party  waiting  on  the  sands 
below. 

When  he  reached  the  ledge  he  found  Eve  standing 
beside  the  remains  of  the  fire,  gazing  down  at  the  boat 
and  the  men  gathered  about  it.  Her  face  was  turned 
away  from  him ;  he  could  not  see  the  expression  upon  it, 
but  he  observed  that  she  had  thrown  a  piece  of  the 


rA  LOST  PARADISE.  227 

cocoa-fibre  cloth  about  her  shoulders  and  was  apparently 
ready  to  descend. 

Eandall  held  out  his  hand. 

"Come,  dear,"  he  said.    "Let  me  help  you." 

She  turned  and  swept  him  with  a  look  of  bitter  con- 
tempt. The  scorn  which  blazed  in  her  eyes  told  him 
more  plainly  than  words  could  have  done  that  even  the 
very  sight  of  the  man  who,  she  believed,  had  degraded 
her  was  well  nigh  unendurable.  He  shrank  back  into 
the  shadow,  and  she  quickly  passed  him  and  went  down 
to  the  beach. 

Involuntarily  he  began  to  follow.  Then  a  fuller 
realization  of  what  her  look  had  meant  came  over  him. 
He  was  an  outcast — so  far  at  least  as  she  was  concerned. 
His  very  presence  was  dreadful  to  her.  Could  he  bring 
himself  to  go  with  her,  to  spend  days,  weeks,  on  ship- 
board near  her,  to  endure  her  scorn,  and  more  than  all, 
to  intensify  her  suffering  by  his  daily  presence  ?  He 
would  be  relegated  to  the  forecastle ;  as  a  deck-hand  he 
could  expect  nothing  else.  The  thought  that  she  would 
see  him  there,  would  thus  be  daily  reminded  of  the 
shame  she  felt  he  had  placed  upon  her,  left  him  weak 
and  trembling.  He  felt  that  he  could  not  bear  it,  and 
in  his  uncertainty  he  sank  down  on  the  slab  of  rock 
which  had  been  their  dining-table  and  lay  there,  utterly 
wretched. 

Below  he  heard  the  others  talking.  Eve  was  telling 
them,  in  a  few  words,  her  story.  From  the  exclamations 
that  came  to  his  ears,  the  sudden  tones  of  respect  in 
which  the  officer  in  charge  of  the  landing  party  ad- 
dressed her,  he  concluded  that  the  story  of  her  loss 


228  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

from  The  Batavia  was  known  to  them.  Possibly  the 
vessel  now  lying  off  shore  was  one  of  the  small  P.  &  O. 
boats  plying  between  Hong  Kong  and  the  Australian 
ports ;  in  any  event,  the  washing  overboard  of  a  woman 
passenger  from  one  of  the  crack  P.  &  O.  liners  would 
be  current  gossip  throughout  shipping  circles  in  Hong 
Kong. 

He  listened  eagerly,  wondering  whether  Eve  would 
speak  in  any  way  of  that  part  of  her  experiences  which 
concerned  him  so  intimately.  He  might  readily  have 
realized  that  she  would  not,  had  the  matter  of  their 
relations,  their  love,  not  been  so  close  to  his  heart.  Left 
to  himself,  he  would  have  shouted  their  love  for  each 
other  from  the  cliff-top,  and  requested  the  captain  of 
the  ship  to  marry  them  as  soon  as  they  got  on  board. 

Eve,  however,  referred  to  him  only  as  a  deck-hand, 
who  had  been  washed  ashore  with  her,  and  had  helped 
her  to  exist  during  the  period  of  their  captivity.  She 
spoke  of  him  quite  without  emotion.  That  which  he1 
knew  she  felt,  she  hid  beneath  an  assumed  pride. 

The  way  in  which  she  mentioned  him,  the  emphasid 
she  seemed  to  place  upon  his  inferior  position,  told  him 
that  between  them  had  been  raised  the  inflexible 
barriers  of  caste.  That  any  man  should  have  taken 
advantage  of  her  temporary  disability  to  rob  her  of  her 
virtue  seemed  bitter  enough,  but  that  the  man  who  had 
done  so  was  little  more  than  a  common  laborer  made 
her  disgrace  seem  doubly  hard  to  bear.  All  that  had 
passed  between  them  during  their  months  together  on 
the  island  had  gone  from  her,  everything,  in  fact,  save 
the  brutal  knowledge  that  this  man  had  despoiled  her. 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  229 

She  wondered  whether  or  not  he  would  boast  of  it, 
amongst  his  companions  on  shipboard. 

Her  thoughts  in  some  intangible  way  were  reflected  in 
Randall's  mind.  He  pictured  her,  wretchedly  pacing 
the  deck,  and  finding  daily  increasing  wretchedness  in 
the  sight  of  him,  working  about  below.  He  felt  that  he 
could  not  endure  it ;  he  was  not  willing  that  she  should 
be  obliged  to  endure  it.  Yet  when  he  decided,  broken- 
hearted, to  remain  behind  and  let  her  go  alone,  the 
thought  that  she,  the  woman  he  loved,  was  about  to 
pass  out  of  his  life  well-nigh  maddened  him.  He  groped 
his  way  to  the  steps  in  the  rock  and  stood  in  hesitation, 
looking  down  at  the  others.  Should  he  go,  and  endure 
the  misery  he  knew  would  be  his,  or  should  he  stay,  and 
try  alone,  in  the  solitude  of  their  lost  Paradise,  to 
bear  the  suffering  which  had  come  to  him  ?  The  ques- 
tion was  one  he  seemed  unable  to  answer. 

Presently  he  heard  a  voice  from  below,  calling  him. 

"Ahoy  there,  my  man!"  it  said  gruffly.  "Are  you 
going  to  stop  up  there  all  night  ?  We're  waiting  for 
you." 

-  For  a  moment  Randall  could  not  speak.  The  agony 
in  his  soul  choked  him.  Then  he  heard  a  voice  that  hei 
knew  to  be  his  own,  although  it  sounded  queer  and  un- 
real to  him. 

"I'm  not  coming,"  it  said. 

"Not  coming !  What  the  dev — "  The  officer  smothered 
the  exclamation  out  of  respect  for  Eve's  presence. 

"I'm  going  to  stay  here,"  Randall  said,  steadily.  He 
wondered  that  he  was  able  to  speak  so  quietly,  with 
such  a  tumult  of  emotions  raging  within  him. 


230  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

There  was  no  response  this  time,  but  soon  he  heard 
someone  stumbling  up  the  side  of  the  cliff,  and  saw  a 
light  bobbing  in  and  out  among  the  rocks.  In  a  few 
moments  the  officer  in  charge  of  the  party  scrambled, 
lantern  in  hand,  upon  the  ledge. 

"See  here,  my  man,"  he  grumbled,  puffing  from  his 
exertions.  "What's  the  meaning  of  this  nonsense  ?  Go 
down  and  get  aboard  at  once." 

Randall  leaned  back  against  the  face  of  the  rock, 
and  shook  his  head.  His  voice  was  very  low,  but  there 
was  no  longer  any  indecision  in  it. 

"I  prefer  to  stay  here,"  he  said. 

"You — you're  crazy,  man!  Here — alone — on  this 
island?" 

"Yes.    I  like  it  here.    I  mean  to  stay." 

The  officer  gazed  at  him  for  a  moment  in  silence. 
He  seemed  unable  to  grasp  Randall's  meaning. 

"Well,"  he  said  at  length,  "I  suppose  I  can't  rescue 
you  against  your  will,  but  I  must  say  it's  damned 
peculiar." 

Randall  gripped  his  hands  together  behind  his  back 
and  strove  to  appear  natural,  unconcerned.  He  dared 
not  glance  down  toward  the  beach,  for  fear  the  sight  of 
Eve  standing  there  might  even  now  cause  him  to  waver 
in  his  purpose. 

"It  isn't  peculiar,"  he  said,  slowly.  "I'm  free  here. 
I  have  plenty  to  eat  and  drink.  Why  should  I  go  back 
with  you?  I'd  only  have  to  work  like  a  dog  to  keep 
body  and  soul  together.  Go  on.  Let  me  be." 

Again  the  officer  stared  as  though  he  thought  the  man 


r&  LOST  PARADISE.      .  231 

before  him  a  trifle  mad.  Then  he  shrugged  his 
shoulders  and  turned  away. 

"All  right,"  he  said.  "It's  your  own  affair,  I  suppose. 
Is  there  anything  you'd  like  me  to  leave  you  ?" 

"Have  you  a  box  of  matches,  and  some  tobacco  ?" 

The  man  drew  a  box  of  wax  tapers  from  his  pocket, 
and  then  a  huge  plug  of  chewing  tobacco. 

"Take  these  and  welcome,"  he  said.  "Anything 
else?" 

"Yes.    A  lead  pencil,  if  you  have  one." 

Again  the  officer  fished  about  in  his  pockets,  then 
handed  Randall  a  stub  of  a  pencil. 

"Got  a  knife,  I  suppose  ?"  he  asked. 

"Yes.    I  don't  need  anything  more." 

The  officer  started  to  leave,  then  hesitated,  shifting 
uneasily  from  one  foot  to  the  other,  as  though  his 
consciencce  troubled  him. 

"Seems  like  a  mighty  unchristian-like  proceeding," 
he  muttered,  "to  leave  a  fellow-being  alone  on  a  desert 
island  like  this." 

Randall  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"It  isn't  a  desert  island,"  he  said,  "and  I  want  to  be 
alone." 

"Very  well,"  replied  the  other,  holding  out  his  hand. 
"Good-by — and  good  luck." 

"Good-by,"  said  Randall,  his  voice  very  husky.  In 
a  moment  he  was  watching  the  lantern  as  it  bobbed 
like  some  huge  intoxicated  fire-fly  down  the  face  of  the 
cliff. 

He  stood  beside  the  embers  of  the  fire  and  watched 
the  men  as  they  launched  the  boat.  When  the  craft 


232  A  LOST  PABADISE. 

had  passed  through  the  line  of  the  surf,  he  ran  down 
the  slope  and  toward  the  beach.  The  darkness  had 
swallowed  the  departing  boat  up,  by  now,  although 
he  could  trace  its  progress  by  the  bobbing  light  of  the 
lantern.  It  seemed  incredible,  that  he  should  be  left 
here  alone.  He  rushed  into  the  surf  until  the  water 
came  up  to  his  shoulders,  calling  wildly  to  Eve  to  come 
back  to  him,  but  the  booming  of  the  breakers  silenced 
the  faint  echoes  of  his  voice. 

For  a  time  he  raved  madly,  crying  out  curses  against 
the  Fates  for  thus  a  second  time  robbing  him  of  all  that 
he  held  dear  in  life.  Then,  as  the  futility  of  his  pro- 
tests came  home  to  him,  he  dragged  himself  once  more 
up  on  the  beach,  and  gazed  hungrily  at  the  distant 
cluster  of  lights  that  marked  the  location  of  the  steamer. 

After  -a  time  the  lights  began  to  move.  Their  motion 
was  almost  imperceptible  at  first,  but  soon,  as  the  vessel 
gathered  way,  they  drew  off  with  increasing  rapidity 
toward  the  east.  Randall  rushed  up  the  face  of  the 
cliff  to  the  ledge,  in  order  to  keep  them  in  view  as  long 
as  possible.  In  half  an  hour  they  had  become  a  faint 
blur  upon  the  horizon.  And  then,  like  the  sudden 
snuffing  of  a  candle,  they  were  blotted  out  altogether, 
and  he  was  alone  with  his  grief  and  the  stars. 


CHAPTEK  XXI. 

IT  must  have  been  many  hours  after  Eve  had  gone 
away  before  Kandall  rose  and  groped  his  way  toward 
the  door  of  the  cave. 

Half-blinded  by  the  tears  that  sprang  to  his  eyes, 
he  threw  himself  down  upon  the  bed  in  an  agony  of 
wretchedness  and  remorse. 

The  whole  world — his  world,  at  least — had  been 
swept  away.  All  that  he  loved  had  been  taken  from 
him.  Even  the  name  of  the  woman  whom  he  regarded 
as  his  wife — the  woman  for  whom  he  would  gladly  have 
given  his  life — was  unknown  to  him.  She  had  vanished, 
possibly  forever,  into  the  night,  and  left  him  without 
even  hope  to  enable  him  to  take  up  once  more  the  broken 
threads  of  life. 

Toward  morning  he  fell  asleep,  and  dreamed  that 
Eve  had  come  back  to  him,  and  was  kneeling  beside 
the  bed,  her  arms  about  his  neck.  He  awoke  to  an 
even  keener  realization  of  his  loneliness.  The  dawn  was 
just  lifting  the  shadows  from  the  surface  of  the  sea, 
when  he  staggered  out  of  the  cave,  and,  descending  to  the 
beach,  plunged  in  for  his  morning  swim. 

The  dip  in  the  surf  refreshed  him;  he  went  about 
the  business  of  preparing  breakfast  with  less  of  the 
black  despair  in  his  heart  than  had  been  there  the  night 


234  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

before.  Yet  his  grief  and  his  love  for  the  woman  who  had 
passed  out  of  his  life  with  the  night  were  no  less  intense. 
He  might  readily  have  thrown  himself  down  on  the  sand, 
and  given  himself  up  to  utter  wretchedness.  That  he  did 
not  do  so  arose  from  a  purely  animal  desire  to  live — 
the  ever  present  instinct  of  self-preservation. 

He  went  about  his  daily  tasks  mechanically,  conscious 
of  the  dull  pain  that  tore  at  his  heart,  yet  forgetting 
it,  from  time  to  time,  in  the  work  that  occupied  him. 
He  secured  some  oysters  for  his  breakfast,  and  stewed 
them,  brought  in  a  fresh  supply  of  firewood  from  the 
jungle,  gathered  fruit,  made  a  long  expedition  down 
the  beach  to  the  little  inlet  on  the  banks  of  which  they 
had  made  their  first  camp,  and  caught  some  mullet  for 
his  midday  meal. 

After  this  he  lay  on  the  sand,  in  the  shade  of  the 
large  tree,  and  slept  during  the  greater  part  of  the 
afternoon. 

On  his  way  back  to  the  cave,  the  white  flag,  made 
of  the  painted  canvas  covering  of  the  life-buoy,  caught 
his  eye  as  it  waved  in  the  breeze.  Now  its  usefulness 
was  over.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  remain  on  the 
island,  for  the  present  at  least,  and  by  no  means  desired 
to  attract  the  attention  of  passing  vessels,  in  case  any 
should  come  his  way. 

He  climbed  the  tree,  and,  taking  down  the  strip  of 
canvas,  brought  it  to  the  cave. 

It  was  some  two  feet  in  width,  and  twelve  in  length, 
and  its  painted  white  surface  was  still  fairly  smooth 
and  clean.  He  remembered  the  stub  of  pencil  which 
the  officer  in  charge  of  the  rescue  party  had  given  him, 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  235 

and  the  idea  of  utilizing  the  canvas  as  something  upon 
which  to  write  crossed  his  mind. 

Originally,  when  he  asked  for  the  pencil,  he  had 
intended  to  make,  if  possible,  some  shift  at  writing  upon 
dried  palm-leaves,  to  provide  occupation  for  his  lonely 
hours.  The  strip  of  canvas  now  offered  a  more  satis- 
factory substitute.  He  spent  the  remainder  of  the  after- 
noon cutting  it  into  squares,  about  twelve  inches  each 
way,  which  he  bound  together  in  the  form  of  a  book. 

In  this  he  began  to  keep  a  diary  of  his  daily  life,  and 
of  thoughts  that  came  to  him  in  his  hours  of  suffering. 
He  began  it  that  day,  and  since  he  knew  neither  the 
day  of  the  week,  nor  the  date,  he  was  forced  to  assign 
to  the  days  numbers,  beginning  with  the  first  that 
he  had  spent  alone. 

The  means  of  self-expression  thus  afforded,  served 
to  while  away  the  tedium  of  his  exile,  and  to  some 
extent  lessened  the  poignancy  of  his  grief.  Month 
after  month  he  lived  the  solitary  life  of  a  hermit,  con- 
vinced that  existence  held  for  him  no  possible  happiness, 
no  imaginable  future  worthy  of  the  name. 

Some  of  the  entries  that  he  made  in  his  diary,  during 
the  three  months  he  spent  alone  on  the  island,  indicate 
the  blank  wretchedness  of  his  earlier  days  of  exile, 
and  the  gradual  rising  within  him  of  hope,  the  insistent 
call  of  the  world. 

"Everything  about  me  speaks  of  the  sweetness  of 
your  presence,"  he  wrote,  at  the  close  of  his  first  after- 
noon alone.  "Eve — Eve — how  can  I  ever  live  without 
you  ?  Come  back  to  me,  or  I  shall  die."  Beyond  this 
he  could  not  write,  but  spent  the  evening  in  a  fit  of 


236  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

abstraction,  wondering  how  things  were  with  her,  this 
woman  who  had  loved  him  so  well,  who  had  given  her 
heart  into  his  keeping. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night,  by  the  light  of  one  of 
his  wax  tapers,  he  scrawled  a  line- 

"If  much  of  the  future  is  to  be  like  this,  I  cannot 
live  it." 

Occasionally  he  jotted  down  insignificant  references 
to  the  events  of  his  daily  life: 

"Got  two  pigeons  to-day.  Killed  a  puff  adder.  ~No 
more  cocoanuts  on  the  fallen  tree,  and  I  can't  climb 
the  others.  Tried  to  bring  some  down  with  a  club, 
but  it  was  no  go.  To-day  it  rained.  Stayed  in  the  cave 
all  day  making  arrows.  I  wish  I  had  some  books." 

Usually  however,  what  he  wrote  referred  in  some  way 
to  Eve.  There  was  no  incident  of  his  daily  life  that 
did  not  remind  him  of  her.  The  thousand  and  one 
little  things  they  had  been  in  the  habit  of  doing  together, 
seemed  useless,  tiresome,  now  that  he  was  forced  to  do 
them  alone. 

"A  thrush  has  been  singing  in  the  edge  of  the  jungle 
to-night,"  he  wrote,  by  the  light  of  the  fire.  "There 
was  one  that  sang  like  that  the  night  we  were  married. 
It  seems  queer,  somehow,  to  write  that  word  married, 
yet,  situated  as  we  were,  the  only  marriage  possible 
was  the  one  made  sacred  by  our  love.  It  is  the  only 
marriage  that  I  shall  ever  have." 

He  wrote  innumerable  poems  to  her,  some  of  them 
beautiful,  some  halting  and  worthless.  At  times  the 
longing  to  see  her,  to  hold  her  close  against  his  heart, 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  237 

almost  drove  him  frantic.     At  other  times  he  forgot 
her,  for  a  brief  space,  in  the  tasks  of  the  day. 

One  day  he  wrote  this  query: 

"Would  she  have  felt  the  same,  had  she  known,  had 
she  remembered,  that  I  am  not  just  the  common  sailor 
she  supposed,  but  a  man  of  her  own  class  ?" 

The  next  day  he  wrote,  under  this : 

"I  ought  to  have  told  her — have  forced  her  to  listen 
to  me." 

These  sentences  indicated  a  changing  mental  state. 
After  the  first  dulness  of  misery,  of  despair,  he  began 
to  think  that  perhaps  the  gulf  between  them  was  not 
so  wide  as  he  had  supposed.  Might  it  not  be  possible 
for  him  to  bridge  it?  Hope  was  beginning  to  assert 
itself  in  his  soul — hope  that  some  day'  he  might  again 
meet  her,  might  find  her  among  all  the  many  millions 
of  women  in  the  world.  The  result  of  this  train  of 
thought  was  that  at  the  expiration  of  the  second  month 
he  again  hung  a  signal  of  distress  in  the  tree — this 
time  a  broad  square  piece  of  the  cocoa-fibre  cloth,  which 
he  spent  two  weeks  in  making.  He  also  kept  a  fire  burn- 
ing day  and  night  on  the  ledge. 

In  spite  of  these  devices,  however,  the  sea  greeted 
him  morning  after  morning  with  its  smooth  and  shin- 
ing expanse  barren  of  any  evidence  of  man  or  his 
works.  He  blamed  himself  bitterly  at  times  for  not 
having  left  the  island  when  Eve  did.  Now,  for  all  he 
knew,  he  might  be  obliged  to  remain  here  a  prisoner 
for  years.  Apparently  it  was  outside  the  beaten  track 
of  vessels  trading  among  the  island  ports. 

<fThe  sea  mocks  me,  with  its  smiling  face,"  he  wrote. 


238  A  LOST  PAEADISE. 

"The  birds  in  the  jungle  laugh  at  my  loneliness.  Yet 
you  are  always  with  me — among  the  breakers  in  the 
morning — on  the  hot  sands,  at  noon — throughout  the 
long,  silent  evenings — under  the  stars — at  night  in  the 
cave.  You  move  silently  about  me  like  a  shadowy 
presence,  and  bid  me  come  to  you.  Sometimes  I  dream, 
and  feel  your  cheek  close  to  mine,  your  breath,  like 
flowers,  in  my  face,  your  breast  against  my  breast, 
and  when  I  wake  the  suffering  is  almost  too  intense 
to  be  borne." 

The  passing  of  the  tobacco  that  had  been  given  him 
by  the  officer  in  charge  of  the  landing  party  was 
recorded  in  feeling  terms.  He  had  been  smoking  it 
sparingly,  in  a  pipe  he  had  carved  out  of  a  bit  of  wood. 
On  the  day  upon  which  he  smoked  the  last  pipeful,  he 
wrote: 

"Tobacco  gone.     Might  just  as  well  be  dead." 

"I  must  go  to  her,"  he  wrote,  on  another  day.  "I 
cannot  live,  unless  I  can  see  her  again." 

He  sat  for  hours  watching  the  ocean,  straining  his 
eyes  at  every  wisp  of  cloud  that  suggested  the  smoke 
from  a  steamer,  or  at  every  flash  of  the  white  wings  of 
a  sea  bird,  giving  momentary  promise  of  a  sail.  And 
still  his  weary  eyes  beheld  only  the  sweep  of  the  sea, 
the  clear  far-off  line  of  the  horizon. 

His  interest  in  the  daily  routine  of  life  grew  less 
and  less.  He  moved  about  only  enough  to  secure  fire- 
wood, food  and  water.  The  remainder  of  the  time 
he  spent  watching  the  sea,  or  writing  in  his  diary. 

The  great  love  he  felt  for  this  woman,  whom  he 
regarded  as  his  wife,  drew  him,  in  thought,  ever 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  239 

toward  the  north-west.  Day  by  day  his  desire  to  see 
her,  to  speak  to  her,  to  hear  her  voice,  increased. 
Sometimes,  during  the  long  hot  days,  the  lonely  nights, 
he  felt  that  if  help  did  not  come  soon,  he  would  die. 
And  still  he  watched  the  sea  in  vain. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THEEE  months  is  after  all  not  a  very  long  time,  but 
to  Randall,  marooned  on  Paradise  Island,  as  lie  and 
Eve  had  been  wont  to  call  it,  it  seemed  well  nigh  in- 
terminable. Had  he  known,  at  the  outset,  that  his 
captivity  would  be  limited  to  that  particular  length 
of  time,  he  might  have  found  his  position  an  easier 
one.  Each  day,  represented  by  some  entry  in  his  diary, 
would  have  brought  him  one  step  nearer  to  a  definite 
goal. 

As  it  was,  he  quite  rightly  argued  that  he  might 
never  be  rescued  at  all.  Some  of  the  smaller  of  the 
innumerable  islands  in  that  part  of  the  Pacific  were 
never  visited  by  trading  ships,  there  being  nothing, 
in  fact,  to  attract  them,  but  the  collection  of  the  beche- 
de-mer  so  highly  prized  by  the  Chinese  epicures.  Para- 
dise Island,  being  of  trifling  size,  afforded  poor  hunting 
grounds  for  even  this  product  of  the  sea.  Randall  had 
observed  numbers  of  the  sausage-shaped,  jelly-like  crea- 
tures along  the  reef,  but  being  entirely  ignorant  of 
either  their  name  or  the  use  to  which  they  were  put, 
was  unable  to  derive  from  their  presence  the  small 
grain  of  hope  that  they  might  have  afforded  him. 

He  continued  to  gather  firewood,  watch  the  sea  from 
the  edge  of  the  cliff,  and  think  continuously  of  Eve. 

240 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  241 

By  this  time,  he  had  made  up  his  mind,  could  he  but 
once  escape  from  his  present  predicament,  to  make  his 
way  to  London,  secure  employment  of  some  sort,  get 
on  his  feet,  financially  speaking,  and  try  to  find  her.  He 
realized  the  difficulties  that  lay  in  his  way.  Being 
ignorant  even  of  her  name,  he  did  not  at  first  see  any 
way  in  which  he  could  hope  to  discover  her,  but  love 
and  the  hope  growing  steadily  in  his  breast  told  him 
that,  whatever  the  outcome,  he  must  at  least  make  the 
attempt. 

His  rescue,  when  it  finally  came,  was  quite  devoid  of 
dramatic  features.  He  had  thrown  himself  down  on 
the  sands  one  hot  afternoon,  after  eating  his  midday 
meal,  and  had  gone  to  sleep,  in  the  shadow  of  some 
water-worn  rocks,  at  the  base  of  the  cliff. 

Above  him,  his  cocoa-fibre  flag  flapped  lazily  in  the 
hot  breeze,  and  a  thin  column  of  smoke  rose  from  the 
fire  on  the  ledge,  and  drifted  off  toward  the  south. 

When  he  awoke,  it  was  to  find  himself  being  shaken 
roughly  by  the  arm. 

".Wake  up,  can't  you  ?"  he  heard  someone  saying. 

He  stumbled  sleepily  to  his  feet,  and  looked  about. 
A  short,  rather  fat  man,  in  dirty  brown  khaki  trousers 
and  coat,  stood  beside  him,  peering  into  his  face  with 
an  amused  smile. 

"You're  a  heavy  sleeper,  mate,"  he  grinned. 

"Yes— I— I  am,"  Kandall  stammered.  "How  did 
you  get  here  ?" 

The  man  pointed  to  a  small  two-masted  schooner 
which  lay  about  half  a  mile  off  shore. 

"We  were  making  for  Singapore,"  he  said,  "when 


242  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

we  saw  your  smoke  and  your  flag.  How'd  you  come 
here?" 

"Washed  off  the  P.  &  O.  liner  Batavia,  during  a 
typhoon,  seven  months  ago." 

"H-m,"  the  man  grunted,  and  looked  about.  "Any- 
thing of  value  on  the  island  ?" 

"Nothing  but  a  few  cocoanut  trees,  on  the  other 
side.  A  dozen  or  more,  I  should  say." 

Again  the  man  grunted. 

"Fresh  water,  of  course  ?" 

"Plenty."  Kandall  pointed  to  the  stream  that  made 
its  way  down  the  narrow  fissure  in  the  side  of  the  cliff. 
As  he  spoke,  two  men  came  toward  them,  one  of  them 
white,  the  other  a  Chinese  or  a  Lascar,  Kandall  could 
not  determine  which.  Further  down  the  beach  he 
saw  a  boat  drawn  up  on  the  sand,  and  two  more  men 
standing  near  it. 

"Fetch  the  casks  up  here,  Martin,"  the  fat  man  said, 
as  the  others  came  up,  looking  at  Randall  curiously. 
The  two  returned  to  the  boat,  and  Randall's  com- 
panion, sitting  down  on  a  rock,  drew  out  a  Manilla 
cheroot,  and  lit  it. 

"Have  one  ?"  he  asked,  feeling  in  his  pocket. 

"Thanks,"  Randall  gasped,  and  lit  the.  cheroot  with 
trembling  fingers.  "I  haven't  had  a  smoke  for  seven 
weeks." 

His  companion  grunted  again.  He  seemed  to  con- 
verse largely  in  grunts,  evidently  considering  words  a 
waste  of  time  in  so  hot  a  climate.  Presently  he  asked : 

"How'd  you  live?" 

Randall  told  him. 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  243 

"Pigeons,  fish,  oysters  and  fruit.  I  had  enough  to 
eat.  It  was  the  horrible  loneliness  that  I  couldn't 
stand." 

The  four  men  were  now  rolling  a  couple  of  water- 
casks  toward  the  little  stream.  Randall  rose. 

"Guess  I'll  go  up  and  get  my  things,"  he  said,  and 
ascended  to  the  cave. 

There  seemed  something  almost  sacred  about  the 
place,  filled  as  it  was  with  memories  of  Eve,  of  their 
wedding  night,  their  happy  months  together.  He 
wrapped  up  his  diary,  one  of  the  coarse  pottery  jugs 
he  had  made,  and  three  or  four  of  the  chessmen  with 
which  they  had  been  in  the  habit  of  playing,  in  a 
piece  of  cocoa-fibre  cloth,  and  from  a  niche  in  the  rock 
took  a  ring,  and  slipped  it  on  his  finger.  He  had  made 
it  for  Eve,  the  day  after  their  wedding,  laboriously 
carving  it  from  a  bit  of  pink  coral,  and  on  the  morn- 
ing after  her  departure  he  had  found  it  lying  on  the 
cave  floor.  Since  then,  it  had  rested  untouched  in  a 
hollow  in  the  rock,  too  sacred  even  to  be  worn.  Now 
he  took  it  with  him,  hoping  that,  sometime,  it  might 
serve  for  a  second  and  more  lasting  union  between  them. 
With  a  last  look  about,  he  picked  up  his  little  bundle, 
and  went  out  on  the  ledge.  Below  he  could  see  the 
four  sailors  filling  the  casks.  The  man  in  the  dirty 
khaki  suit  was  smoking  sleepily  on  the  sands. 

Now  that  he  was  about  to  leave  the  place,  a  feeling  of 
regret  swept  over  him,  glad  as  he  was  to  go.  Here  he 
had  known  the  greatest  happiness  of  his  life,  and  the 
greatest  wretchedness  as  well.  He  wondered  whether 
he  would  ever  know  such  happiness  again. 


244  A  LOST  PAEADISE. 

The  water-casks  were  filled,  by  the  time  he  had 
returned  to  the  beach. 

"Let's  be  off,"  the  fat  man  said,  rising.  "Hope 
you'll  be  able  to  lend  a  hand  aboard,  mate."  He  ap- 
praised Randall's  stout  shoulders  and  muscular  arms 
with  an  appreciative  eye.  "We're  somewhat  short- 
handed,  this  trip." 

"I  was  a  deck-hand  on  The  Batavia"  Randall  told 
him.  "I  don't  know  much  about  sailing-vessels,  but  I'll 
do  what  I  can." 

"Good.  We'll  make  port  in  a  couple  of  weeks.  Won't 
need  you  after  that." 

"Singapore,  you  said  ?" 

"Yes.    Straits  Settlement." 

"Does  the  P.  &  0.  touch  there  ?" 

"Well,  I  should  say  so."  The  man  grinned.  "Plenty 
of  'em,  to  Hong  Kong,  Shanghai,  Nagasaki,  Colombo, 
Port  Said,  London — that's  where  you  want  to  go,  I  take 
it." 

"Why  do  you  say  that  ?" 

"Oh,  the  P.  &  O.  hands  mostly  come  from  there,  and 
want  to  get  back.  You  English  ?" 

"No;  American." 

The  man  turned,  smiling  broadly. 

"No !  So  am  I.  Put  it  there."  He  extended  his 
broad  flat  hand.  "  'Frisco's  my  home — or  used  to  be. 
I  ain't  seen  the  Golden  Gate  now  for  goin'  on  seven 
year.  This  country  out  here  is  hell,  but  somehow  it 
gets  you,  once  you  have  a  taste  of  it.  God!  What 
wouldn't  I  give,  for  a  nice  juicy  steak,  and  a  cold  bottle 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  245 

of  beer,  down  in  a  little  restaurant  I  used  to  know  on 
Market  Street !" 

They  had  reached  the  boat  by  now.  Fifteen  minutes 
later  Randall  was  scrambling  up  the  side  of  the  tubby 
little  schooner,  and  by  nightfall  Paradise  Island  had 
become  a  faint  purple  blur  on  the  eastern  horizon. 

Eighteen  days  later,  he  landed  in  Singapore,  with  a 
decent  suit  of  sailor's  clothes,  and  a  pound  in  money, 
both  presents  from  his  fellow  countryman  from  San 
Francisco.  The  work  aboard  the  ship  had  been  hard, 
the  fare  coarse,  and  not  always  very  palatable ;  but  the 
thought  that  he  was  once  more  on  his  way  toward  civili- 
zation, and,  more  than  all,  toward  Eve,  filled  him  with 
an  enthusiasm  which  made  light  of  all  minor  dis- 
comforts. 

At  Singapore,  realizing  that  the  small  amount  of 
money  in  his  possession  would  suffice  to  maintain  him 
for  but  a  very  few  days,  he  went  at  once  to  the  offices 
of  the  agent  of  the  P.  &  0.  Company  in  Collyer  Quay. 

Here  he  explained  the  circumstances  surrounding 
his  loss  from  The  Batavia,  and  asked  that,  if  possible, 
a  berth  be  found  for  him  on  a  homeward-bound  steamer. 

The  agent,  a  tall,  thin  man,  very  yellow  and  dyspep- 
tic-looking, smiled  with  an  entire  absence  of  mirth. 

"You  are  not  an  Englishman,  my  good  fellow  ?"  he 
questioned,  when  he  had  heard  Randall's  story. 

"No,  sir.  I'm  a  deck-hand,  though,  and  if  they  need 
one " 

«I»H  See — I'll  see,"  the  agent  fussed,  putting  Ran- 
dall's name  down  on  a  slip  of  paper.  "Sometimes  the 
homeward-bound  vessels  need  a  man  or  two.  There 


246  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

are  desertions  to  be  reckoned  with.  The  Simla  is  due 
from  Hong  Kong  tomorrow.  Apply  on  board.  You 
were  on  The  Batavia,  you  say  ?  I'll  advise  the  captain 
of  the  circumstances." 

Randall  was  waiting  at  the  dock,  the  next  morning, 
when  The  Simla  hove  in  sight.  His  night  at  a  small 
second-rate  hotel,  together  with  his  meals  and  some 
other  expenditures,  had  cost  him  seven  of  his  twenty 
shillings.  He  estimated  that,  at  this  rate,  he  could 
exist  in  Singapore  about  four  days.  It  was  absolutely 
necessary  for  him  to  get  a  berth  on  The  Simla,  unless, 
indeed,  he  were  to  ask  for  assistance  at  the  American 
consulate. 

Again,  the  fates  favored  him.  One  of  The  Simla's 
crew  was  ill  with  enteric  fever.  Randall  got  in  his 
application  almost  before  the  vessel's  anchor  reached 
the  mud.  The  fact  that  he  had  been  a  member  of  The 
Batavia's  crew,  and  had  gone  overboard  during  a 
typhoon  in  trying  to  save  one  of  the  company's  pas- 
sengers, helped  him  materially.  When  The  Simla  left 
Singapore,  Randall's  name  was  on  the  roster  of  her 
crew. 

He  turned  his  face  to  the  north,  and  to  Eve,  and 
went  about  his  work  with  a  growing  joy  in  his  heart. 
Each  revolution  of  the  screw  brought  him  that  much 
nearer  to  her.  They  had  been  driven  out  of  Paradise, 
but  the  world  beckoned,  and  he  had  found  that  even 
Paradise  could  be  dismal  and  cold,  when  adventured 
alone. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

SOME  six  weeks  after  leaving  Singapore,  Richard 
Randall  stepped  from  the  train  at  Liverpool  Street 
Station,  London,  with  the  relics  of  his  island  life  in  a 
small  parcel  under  one  arm,  and  somewhat  over  twelve 
dollars,  in  English  money,  in  his  pocket. 

Civilization  did  not  greet  him  with  open  arms, 
nor  with  a  stern  and  forbidding  frown — in  fact,  it 
did  not  greet  him  at  all,  being  quite  unconcerned  in  the 
matter,  one  way  or  the  other.  There  were  so  many—- 
so terribly  many! — human  midges  like  himself  in  this 
monstrous  city  that  the  coming  or  going  of  one  more  or 
less  seemed  of  infinitesimal  importance.  The  fact 
came  to  him  with  something  of  a  shock,  as  he  stood 
irresolute  upon  the  sidewalk,  and  watched  the  ebb  and 
flow  of  the  human  tide. 

Yet  the  shock  was  not  by  any  means  so  great  as 
would  have  been  the  case,  had  he  been  suddenly  trans- 
ported, after  the  manner  of  the  Arabian  nights,  from 
the  South  Pacific  to  Liverpool  Street,  without  stopping 
by  the  way.  To  some  extent  the  change  had  been 
gradual.  At  Hong  Kong,  at  Colombo,  he  had  touched 
once  more  the  fringe  of  the  garments  of  civilization, 
and  progressing  by  way  of  Aden,  Port  Said,  Marseilles, 

247 


248  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

Gibraltar  and  Plymouth,  he  slowly  shook  off  the  gold  and 
azure  spell  of  the  tropics,  and  came  once  more  to  feel 
himself  an  integral  part  of  the  great  gray  life  of  the 
north. 

The  transition  filled  him  with  renewed  energy,  with 
gripping  desire  to  get  back  once  more  into  the  iron 
struggle.  Dreaming  away  the  days  under  a  tropic  sun 
no  longer  appealed  to  him.  He  felt  his  muscles  harden- 
ing, his  nerves  growing  taut  for  the  fight.  As  The 
Simla  plunged  up  the  Channel,  on  a  raw  and  bluster- 
ing day  in  March,  the  tang  of  frost  in  his  face  set  his 
blood  dancing  to  a  more  vital  and  rugged  tune  than 
any  that  the  soft  tropic  breezes  had  afforded.  This, 
indeed,  was  life. 

At  Plymouth  he  had  been  obliged  to  invest  a  portion 
of  his  pay  in  a  suit  of  cheap,  but  warm,  clothes  and 
a  heavy  pea-jacket,  yet  the  night  air,  as  he  left  the  sta- 
tion and  walked  aimlessly  in  the  direction  of  Cheapside, 
made  him  shiver  with  the  cold. 

The  streets  glowed  with  light,  and  through  them 
swept  the  never  ending  crowds  of  the  restless  city.  No 
one  looked  at  him;  to  none  of  these  people  was  his 
presence  of  the  least  importance;  their  own  affairs, 
indeed,  occupied  them  fully.  Kandall  became  con- 
scious of  a  feeling  of  vast  loneliness,  more  keen  than 
fcny  he  had  known,  during  even  his  long  solitary  months 
on  the  island. 

London  was  to  him  a  sealed  book.  Of  its  highways 
land  by-ways  he  knew  absolutely  nothing.  Low,  dingy- 
looking  buildings  surrounded  him,  with,  beyond,  a 
circular  park,  indifferently  well  lighted.  He  wandered 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  249 

on,  aimlessly,  uncertainly,  with  no  definite  idea  of 
where  to  go,  or  what  to  do. 

An  eating-house  presently  attracted  his  attention. 
He  went  in,  and  consumed  a  huge  slice  of  roast  mutton 
and  some  boiled  potatoes  with  an  appetite  born  of 
weeks  of  hard  work  at  sea.  Physically,  he  felt  in  better 
trim  than  ever  before  in  his  life;  the  past  year  had 
turned  his  muscles  to  steel,  and  given  him  the  rugged 
health  of  a  day  laborer. 

After  his  meal,  he  sought  a  barber  shop,  and,  having 
at  length  found  one,  went  inside,  and  requested  the 
astonished  proprietor  to  trim  his  hair,  and  shave  off 
his  beard  and  mustache. 

The  effect  was  revolutionary.  When  Eandall 
glanced  at  himself  in  the  mirror,  he  seemed  to  be 
gazing  at  someone  whom  he  had  once  known,  but  had  not 
seen  for  a  long,  long  time.  The  beard  had  made  him 
appear  at  least  thirty-five ;  now  he  seemed  almost  boyish, 
as  of  old.  There  were  lines  of  experience,  of  self- 
reliance  in  his  face,  however,  that  had  not  been  there 
when  he  left  New  York,  nearly  a  year  before. 

He  took  up  his  little  bundle,  and  went  out.  Thus 
cleanly  shaven  and  groomed,  he  seemed  more  a  part  of 
the  life  about  him.  One  might  have  imagined  him  a 
chauffeur,  or  a  well-to-do  young  farmer,  or,  indeed, 
a  follower  of  almost  any  calling  that  entailed  constant, 
exposure  to  the  sun  and  wind.  His  face  burned  to  a 
ruddy  brown,  his  eyes  sparkling  with  vitality  and 
health,  denied  all  acquaintance  with  the  over-heated  and 
under-ventilated  atmosphere  of  the  city. 

He  had  secured,  from  one  of  the  petty  officers  of  The 


250  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

Simla,  the  name  of  a  small,  but  decent,  hotel  in  Fleet 
Street.  The  officer  had  seemed  surprised  that  a  deck- 
hand should  want  to  go  to  lodgings  of  so  pretentious 
a  sort,  but  Randall  gave  no  information,  beyond  the 
fact  that  he  had  friends  in  London,  and  wished  to  be 
decently  lodged. 

His  plans  for  the  future  were  somewhat  vague,  but 
they  did  not  by  any  means  contemplate  continuing  in 
the  stratum  of  life  in  which  he  had  found  himself  for 
the  past  year.  His  experience  on  shipboard  had  served 
its  purpose,  had  given  him  the  health  and  energy  that 
he  so  sadly  lacked  the  year  before. 

In  a  general  way,  he  thought  of  applying  for  work  to 
some  of  the  London  newspapers,  or,  failing  in  this, 
perhaps  to  secure  a  position  with  some  magazine,  or 
publishing  house.  He  believed  that  his  standing  as 
the  author  of  two  plays,  even  though  they  had  not 
been  successful  ones,  would  enable  him  to  get  employ- 
ment of  some  sort  as  a  writer.  Perhaps  he  did  not 
fully  realize  the  overcrowded  condition  of  the  literary 
field  in  London,  or  he  would  not  have  been  so  confident 
of  success. 

Failing  to  secure  such  work,  he  meant  to  take  what- 
ever offered — anything,  in  fact,  that  would  enable  him 
to  live,  and  ultimately  to  accomplish  his  two  great 
purposes :  to-  win  success  in  his  dramatic  work,  and  to 
find  Eve. 

Should  he  be  obliged  to  take  even  the  poorest-paying 
sort  of  a  position,  he  determined  so  to  arrange  his  life 
as  to  live  within  his  income,  and  to  complete  a  new 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  251 

play,  which  had  taken  shape  in  his  mind  during  his 
long  unoccupied  hours  on  the  island. 

The  problem  of  finding  Eve  would,  he  felt  sure, 
prove  a  simple  one.  He  had  only  to  make  inquiries  at 
the  London  offices  of  the  P.  &  O.  Company,  to  ascertain 
the  identity  of  the  passenger  who  had  been  swept  over- 
board from  The  Batavia  the  summer  before,  four  days 
out  of  Hong  Kong,  and  had  been  subsequently  rescued. 
He  would  have  secured  this  information,  indeed,  at  Hong 
Kong,  had  he  been  permitted  shore  leave  during  The 
Simla's  stop  there,  but  this  had  been  denied  him. 

It  was  not  the  problem  of  finding  Eve  that  troubled 
him,  but  of  approaching  her,  after  he  had  succeeded  in 
finding  her.  To  go  to  her  as  the  sailor  who  had  shared 
her  captivity  on  the  island  was  not  to  be  thought  of. 
He  meant  to  meet  her  as  an  equal,  confident  that,  both 
because  of  his  completely  changed  appearance  and  of  the 
curious  hiatus  in  Eve's  mind  concerning  their  life  on 
the  island,  she  would  have  no  idea  whatever  of  his 
identity. 

As  an  equal,  he  meant  to  lay  siege  to  her  heart,  be- 
lieving that  her  love  for  him  lay  too  deep  to  be  de- 
stroyed by  any  mental  upheaval,  no  matter  how  violent. 
But  how  could  he  hope  to  go  to  her  as  an  equal,  unless 
he  had  first  achieved  material  success  ?  As  a  writer  of 
successful  plays,  he  knew  that  he  might  hope  to  do  so ; 
and,  as  matters  were,  he  could  see  no  other  avenue  of 
approach.  The  way  seemed  hard,  indeed,  as  he  con- 
templated the  obstacles  before  him,  but  he  laughed 
and  made  light  of  them.  With  a  few  shillings  in  his 
pocket,  and  an  unbounded  fund  of  confidence  in  himself 


252  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

and  his  ability,  he  once  more  dreamed  of  conquering 
the  world. 

After  he  had  deposited  his  very  meagre  luggage  in  his 
hotel  room,  he  went  for  a  walk.  His  old  love  of  life, 
of  humanity  in  all  its  forms,  was  beginning  to  assert 
itself.  He  strolled  along  Fleet  Street,  toward  where 
it  broadens  out  into  the  Strand,  with  an  eager  and 
curious  eye  on  all  about  him. 

It  was  after  eight  o'clock,  and  the  Strand  was  teeming 
with  cabs,  automobiles,  and  men  and  women  in  evening 
dress,  hurrying  toward  the  many  theatres  that  front 
upon  it.  Eandall  glanced  at  the  hoardings  announcing 
this  or  that  new  play,  with  the  keenest  interest.  Once 
he  had  lived  this  life ;  once  he  had  known  the  names  of  all 
the  new  dramatic  ventures,  not  only  at  home,  but 
abroad  as  well.  His  talk,  his  interests,  his  whole  life, 
had  centered  about  the  theatre.  Now  he  came  to  it  a 
stranger.  The  whole  kaleidoscopic  picture  had  assumed 
a  new  aspect.  New  plays  filled  the  stages ;  new  names 
bespoke  the  efforts  of,  to  him,  unknown  authors.  He 
regarded  them  all  curiously,  with  a  grim  smile,  as  he 
thought  of  the  way  in  which  his  own  hopes  had  been 
crushed,  less  than  a  year  before. 

It  struck  him  as  singular,  astonishing  even,  that, 
suddenly  set  down  in  London,  where  he  was  as  much 
at  sea  as  he  would  have  been  in  St.  Petersburg,  or 
Peking,  he  had  without  the  least  intention,  wandered 
almost  directly  to  the  very  heart  of  theatredom.  Was 
there,  then,  some  subtle  and  telepathic  instinct  that 
again  drew  him  toward  the  life  which  had  hitherto 
absorbed  all  his  energy  and  time  ?  He  compared  him- 


A  LOST  £AKADISE.  253 

self,  mentally,  to  the  night  moth,  so  persistently  at- 
tracted by  the  candle.  Here  were  the  lights  by  the 
flames  of  which  he  had  been  so  cruelly  burned.  In  all 
their  dazzling  brilliance  they  appealed  to  him  still. 
On  every  hoarding,  displaying  the  title  of  some  new 
play,  he  could  see,  in  his  imagination,  his  own  name, 
proclaiming  to  the  world — and  to  Eve — his  success. 
There  was  a  wonderful  lure  about  it  all.  He  paused 
near  the  doorway  of  one  of  the  theatres,  and  watched 
the  jostling  throng  making  its  way  into  the  lobby.  Here, 
judging  by  the  crowd,  was  a  success — such  a  success 
as  he  might  have  had,  as  he,  indeed,  meant  to  have, 
if  hard  work  could  obtain  it  for  him.  He  turned  to 
the  bill,  fixed  in  a  gilt  frame  beside  the  door,  and  idly 
began  to  read  the  announcement  of  the  play. 

And  then  a  queer,  almost  sickening  sensation  came 
over  him.  He  stood  for  a  moment  absolutely  Btill — 
rigid — unable  to  breathe,  staring  at  the  words  of  the 
bill.  They  seemed  outlined  in  letters  of  fire,  and  danced 
ceaselessly  around  and  around  in  blurred  circles.  As- 
tounded, he  rubbed  his  eyes  in  sheer  bewilderment. 
It  could  not  be— the  thing  was  a  trick  of  the  imagina- 
tion, a  coincidence,  a  dream.  Yet  when  he  looked  again, 
the  same  miracle  confronted  him.  There  was  the  name 
of  the  play,  glaring  at  him,  in  letters  that  seemed  six 
feet  in  height :  "The  Long  Lane."  And  below,  in  letters 
almost  equally  monstrous,  fantastic,  grotesque,  un- 
believable, he  read  the  words:  "By  Mr.  Kichard 
Kandall." 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

FOB  the  second  time  in  a  twelvemonth,  Richard 
Randall's  whole  world  had,  by  a  twist  of  fate,  revolved 
completely  upon  its  axis  with  a  suddenness  which  left 
him  gasping  for  breath. 

On  the  first  occasion  in  New  York,  some  ten  months 
before,  the  revolution  had  whirled  him  from  a  state  of 
imaginary  opulence,  to  the  dull,  drab  misery  of  utter 
failure.  Now  the  process  had  with  equal  celerity  been 
reversed,  and  he  found  himself  walking  on  air,  among 
the  stars.  It  was  too  much.  He  refused  to  believe  it. 
It  was  clearly  a  mistake,  and  yet,  one  of  the  two  plays 
he  had  left  with  Mr.  Taylor  had  been  entitled,  "The 
Long  Lane."  Mechanically  he  groped  in  his  pocket, 
and  drew  out  a  handful  of  silver.  In  one  way  alone 
could  the  matter  be  tested.  He  must  see  the  play. 

In  his  excitement,  he  had  walked  away  from  the 
theatre  perhaps  half-a-hundred  feet.  Now  he  came 
back  again,  and  once  more  read  the  announcement  at 
the  door.  A  line  attracted  his  attention — it  had  escaped 
him  before.  "The  Great  New  York  Success,"  it  read. 
He  thought  of  Mr.  Taylor.  Clearly  this  was  the  result 
of  his  work.  The  play  must  have  been  put  on  in  New 
York  the  autumn  before.  It  all  seemed  so  unbelievable ! 
His  play — a  New  York  success !  It  meant  that,  although 

254 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  255 

he  had  but  a  few  dollars  in  his  pocket,  he  was  rich. 
The  knowledge  that  now  he  could  find  Eve — Eve — the 
woman  of  his  dreams,  without  the  long  years  of  struggle 
which  had  but  a  few  moments  before  confronted  him, 
made  him  feel  suddenly  faint.  He  leaned  against  the 
doorway  that  opened  into  the  lobby,  and  tried  to  collect 
his  vagrant  senses. 

A  "bobby"  in  front  of  the  theatre  began  to  regard 
him  with  rising  suspicion.  Presently  Randall  became 
aware  of  it;  he  entered  the  lobby,  and  going  to  the 
box-office,  purchased  an  inexpensive  seat. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  been  inside  a  theatre 
for  nearly  a  year.  How  familiar,  how  natural,  it  all 
seemed!  There  was  no  denying  it — something  in  the 
atmosphere  of  the  stage  held  him,  and,  after  all  these 
months,  made  him  feel  that  here  at  last  he  was  home 
again,  back  with  his  people.  All  the  rest  seemed  strange, 
far  away,  unreal. 

The  curtain  rose.  Instantly  he  recognized  the  open- 
ing act  of  the  play  as  he  had  pictured  it  in  his  manu- 
script. There  was  the  drawing-room  of  the  summer 
cottage,  with  the  veranda  beyond,  between  the  stone 
posts  of  which  one  glimpsed  the  distant  sea.  He  settled 
back  in  his  seat,  and  listened,  eagerly  intent. 

The  play  seemed  almost  new  to  him,  so  completely 
had  it  passed  from  his  mind  during  his  absence.  He 
found  himself  laughing  at  his  own  wit,  or  leaning  for- 
ward with  half-parted  lips,  to  catch  the  low-spoken 
lines  of  some  of  the  tense,  yet  quiet,  scenes. 

It  was  a  good  play — a  very  good  play.  He  knew  that, 
now  that  he  was  able  to  judge  it  with  a  fresh  and  UD» 


256  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

prejudiced  mind.  And  the  audience  knew  it,  and  mani- 
fested its  enjoyment  in  unstinted  applause. 

When  Randall  left  the  theatre  a  little  after  eleven, 
he  knew  not  only  that  he  had  written  a  successful  play, 
but  that  its  success  was  deserved. 

He  stopped  at  the  box-office,  and  asked  the  man  at 
the  window  how  long  the  play  had  been  running  in 
London. 

"Five  weeks,"  was  the  reply. 

"Where  can  I  find  the  manager  ?" 

"You  mean,  Mr.  Merryman  ?  He  isn't  here  to-night. 
He'll  be  in  his  office  upstairs  anytime  after  noon  to- 
morrow. Why  ?" 

"I  want  to  see  him,"  Randall  answered,  turning 
away;  "a  personal  matter.  I'll  call  to-morrow." 

He  squandered  eight  shillings  on  a  lonely  supper, 
and  went  to  bed,  convinced  that  the  world  was  a  very 
good  place,  indeed,  in  which  to  be.  His  last  thoughts 
were  of  Eve;  but  this  was  not  'Unusual:  his  last 
thoughts  had  been  of  her  every  night,  for  many  months. 

When  he  went  to  the  theatre  the  following  morning, 
he  was  almost  convinced  that  the  events  of  the  night 
before  had  been  a  dream.  Their  reality,  however,  was 
impressed  upon  him  by  a  series  of  quite  unexpected 
happenings. 

Upon  presenting  himself  at  the  office  of  Mr.  Arthur 
Merryman,  the  manager  of  The  Oberon  Theatre,  he  of 
course  sent  in  his  name,  but,  even  as  he  did  so,  he 
realized  that  he  was  likely  to  be  confronted  by  a  very 
serious  difficulty — that  of  establishing  his  identity.  No 
Such  difficulty  was  to  hamper  him,  as  matters  turned  out, 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  257 

for  within  three  minutes  after  he  had  given  his  name 
to  the  rather  supercilious  clerk,  he  heard  a  familiar 
voice,  and,  looking  up,  saw  Edmund  Taylor  coming 
toward  him,  beaming  welcoming  smiles. 

"Randall!"  he  exclaimed,  pumping  the  young  man's 
arm  up  and  down  with  joyous  severity.  "This  is  a  sur- 
prise !" 

"Mr.  Taylor !"  replied  Randall,  laughing  from  sheer 
nervousness.  "I'm  so  glad  to  see  you !" 

"Come  in.  Where  did  you  come  from?  And  where 
the  devil  have  you  been  all  this  time  ?"  A  veritable 
volley  of  questions  rattled  about  Randall's  head. 

"It's  a  long  story.  I've  been  in  China,  and  other 
places.  I  can't  see  that  things  have  suffered  much 
through  my  absence,"  he  added,  smiling.  "In  fact, 
you  seem  to  have  done  very  much  better  without  me. 
How  can  I  ever  thank  you  ?" 

"Never  mind  about  that,"  Mr.  Taylor  interrupted. 
"I  always  told  you  your  stuff  was  all  right.  It  has 
been  a  satisfaction,  I  assure  you,  to  prove  that  I  was 
not  mistaken.  Come  inside.  I  want  you  to  meet  Mr. 
Merryman." 

Randall  followed  him  through  the  door,  and  was 
soon  shaking  hands  with  an  urbane  and  prosperous- 
looking  gentleman,  whose  twinkling  gray  eyes  were  al- 
most lost  in  the  ruddy  fatness  of  his  countenance. 

"Mr.  Randall,"  he  said,  "I  am  delighted  to  see  you. 
Everyone  has  been  asking  about  you.  I  declare,  you've 
become  quite  a  mystery — the  vanishing  playwright,  and 
all  that.  Remarkably  clever,  I  must  say,  your  idea 
of  disappearing." 


258  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

"But— why?"  Randall  gazed  from  him  to  Mr. 
Taylor. 

"Don't  you  see  ?"  laughed  the  latter.  "I've  played 
the  story  up  for  all  it  was  worth,  of  course,  just  to 
arouse  interest  in  your  work.  Now  you've  become 
quite  a  celebrity,  without  knowing  it.  Naturally  it 
didn't  seem  strange,  before  the  play  succeeded,  but 
afterward  everybody  began  to  wonder  why  you  did  not 
come  forward  and  claim  your  royalties.  It  was  incon- 
ceivable that  you  could  have  so  effectually  buried  your- 
self that  you  would  not  know  of  your  success.  Some 
of  the  New  York  papers  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
you  were  dead.  Splendid  advertising,  of  course.  I  be- 
lieve The  Planet  has  offered  a  reward,  to  the  first  per- 
son who  might  succeed  in  solving  the  mystery." 

"Hadn't  I  perhaps  better  remain  one  ?"  asked  Ran- 
dall, laughing. 

"By  no  means,"  Mr.  Merryman  interrupted.  "We'll 
get  a  magnificent  bit  of  press  work  out  of  this.  Where 
have  you  been,  may  I  ask  ?" 

Randall  determined  to  suppress,  for  the  time  being, 
any  mention  of  his  life  with  Eve  on  the  island.  If  his 
disappearance  was  to  become  a  matter  of  newspaper 
notoriety,  he  preferred  that  she  should  not  become  in- 
volved in  it. 

"I've  been  at  sea,"  he  remarked.  "As  a  deck-hand, 
mostly.  Just  got  in,  yesterday,  on  The  Simla,  from 
Singapore." 

Mr.  Merryman  slapped  his  fat  knee,  and  wrinkled 
his  face  in  a  delighted  smile. 

"Superb!     It  will  make  a  story  in  a  thousand.     I 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  259 

suppose  you  happened  upon  a  hoarding,  with  your  name 
upon  it,  quite  by  accident  ?" 

"Quite." 

"And  were  penniless — starving,   at  the  time?" 

"Not  quite.     I  had  a  pound  or  two." 

"A  mere  detail,  my  dear  sir.  We  will  say  that  you 
were  penniless,  starving,  ready  to  commit  suicide — 
saw  your  name  in  front  of  the  theatre,  made  yourself 
known,  and  rise  in  one  bound  from  poverty  to  affluence, 
from  obscurity  to  fame.  Superb!  It  will  double  our 
business." 

"What's  the  use  ?"  Taylor  laughed.  "The  house  is 
packed  every  night." 

"Ah,  my  dear  sir!  Advertising  such  as  this  will 
pack  it  for  months  to  come.  When  can  you  see  the 
newspaper  men,  Mr.  Randall  ?" 

Randall  gazed  at  Mr.  Taylor,  rather  helplessly. 

"I'd  rather  like  to  get  some  other  clothes,"  he  began. 

But  Mr.  Merryman  interposed  immediate  and  stren- 
uous objections. 

"Not  to  be  thought  of  for  a  moment,  Mr.  Randall. 
That  would  spoil  the  story  completely.  They  would 
become  suspicious  at  once  if  you  were  well  dressed,  and 
might  think  that  we  were  trying  to  'put  something  over 
on  them,'  as  you  say  in  New  York.  No,  sir;  you  look 
the  part  now,  perfectly.  I'll  venture  to  say  you  got  that 
pea-jacket,  and  that  suit,  at  a  real  sailor's  slop-shop. 
They  are  unmistakable.  Stay  just  as  you  are.  I'll 
arrange  for  an  interview  at  four  this  afternoon." 

"All  right,"  Randall  laughed,  and  turned  to  Taylor, 
who  had  risen. 


260  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

"Come  along  with  me,"  the  latter  said,  "and 
get  a  bit  of  lunch.  That  will  give  us  a  chance  to  talk. 
I'm  mighty  glad  you  came  when  you  did,"  he  added, 
as  they  descended  the  stairs.  "I'm  leaving  for  home  next 
week." 

"How  long  have  you  been  here  ?"  Eandall  asked. 

"Ever  since  the  play  opened.  I  just  ran  over  for  a 
vacation  and  rest — and  to  keep  an  eye  on  your  interests, 
of  course.  You've  made  quite  a  lot  of  money,  young 
man.  I  have  it  all  safely  in  bank,  waiting  for  you." 

"I  don't  see  how  I'm  ever  going  to  thank  you  for  all 
you've  done.  I  insist  that  you  take  a  share." 

"Nonsense !"  Taylor  interrupted.  "It  really  was  no 
trouble  at  all.  I've  enjoyed  it.  I  think — "  he  con- 
sulted a  memorandum  book,  which  he  drew  from  his 
pocket — "that  you  are  at  this  moment  worth  about 
thirty-five  thousand  dollars." 

"Thirty-five  thousand  dollars !  I'll  have  to  keep 
pinching  myself,  to  be  sure  I'm  not  dreaming." 

"You're  not,  my  boy.  And  you're  going  to  make 
more,  too.  Written  any  new  plays  since  you  left  New 
York?" 

"Nat  exactly — I — I've  been — doing  other  things, 
though." 

"What  ?"  They  turned  into  a  neighboring  restau- 
rant. "You  can  tell  me  all  about  it  as  we  eat.  Splen- 
did chops  here,  and  beefsteak  pie;  if  you  like  it.  I 
must  say,  Randall  your  year  of  travel  certainly  has 
done  you  good.  You  look  as  though  you  might  have 
the  appetite  of  a  longshoreman." 

"I  have,"  Randall  laughed,  as  they  seated  themselves. 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  261 

"I  never  before  realized  just  how  much  fresh  air  and 
hard  labor  can  do  for  a  man.  Now  I'll  tell  you  my  adven- 
tures," he  concluded,  when  they  had  given  their  order. 

The  telling  occupied  close  to  two  hours,  and  Mr. 
Taylor  almost  forgot  to  eat  his  luncheon,  so  interested 
did  he  become  in  the  story. 

"And  you  really  mean  to  say,"  he  asked,  when  Ran- 
dall had  concluded,  "that  you  don't  know  the  woman's 
name  ?" 

"No,  I  haven't  the  least  idea  who  she  is;  but  I  am 
sure  that  she  is  an  Englishwoman.  Of  course,  I  mean  to 
find  out,  at  once.  And  you  understand,  I  am  sure,  my 
reasons  for  wishing  to  keep  the  matter  out  of  the  news- 
papers. In  spite  of  Mr.  Merryman's  desire  for  a  press 
story,  I  am  going  to  say  nothing  whatever  about  that 
part  of  my  adventures.  I'll  tell  these  newspaper  men 
that  I've  been  knocking  about  the  Far  East  as  a  deck- 
hand, and  let  it  go  at  that." 

"You  are  quite  right.  The  play  doesn't  need  any 
artificial  advertising,  anyway.  It's  one  of  the  biggest 
successes  in  London.  I  don't  doubt  it  will  run  here  four 
months.  And  that  reminds  me:  You'll  be  wanting 
some  money,  of  course."  He  drew  out  a  check-book, 
and  called  for  pen  and  ink.  "I  have  an  account  at 
Brown's.  Suppose  I  give  you  five  hundred  now.  I'll 
arrange  credit  for  you  there  in  the  morning,  in  case 
you  mean  to  stay  in  London  any  length  of  time  after 
I  sail.  I  suppose  you  do,"  he  concluded,  with  a  mean- 
ing smile. 

Randall  returned  his  smile. 

"I'm  going  to  stay  here  until  I  find  my  wife,"  he 


262  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

said,  suddenly  turning  grave.  "After  that,  I'll  think 
about  coming  back  to  New  York." 

His  interview  with  the  newspaper  men  was  short,  but 
they  seemed  greatly  pleased  with  the  results.  When 
Randall  saw  the  highly  colored  accounts  of  his  adven- 
tures in  the  morning  papers,  he  laughed  to  himself.  Even 
Eve,  he  felt  sure,  would  not  recognize  him  in  this  dare- 
devil young  soldier  of  fortune,  who  had,  it  seemed, 
done  a  little  of  everything,  from  tiger-shooting  in  India, 
to  beach-combing  in  the  Philippines.  He  threw  the 
papers  aside.  There  were  more  important  matters  to 
occupy  his  attention. 

That  evening  he  moved  to  one  of  the  better-known 
hotels,  and  the  following  forenoon  saw  him  dashing 
madly  about  in  a  taxicab  from  haberdashers  to  tailor 
shops,  from  bootmakers  to  hatters,  in  pursuit  of  a  ward- 
robe. It  was  not  that  he  had  become  a  celebrity,  with 
Mr.  Taylor  ready  to  introduce  him  at  literary  clubs  and 
the  like  that  induced  this:  Randall  was  a  man  of 
simple  tastes,  and  bore  his  new  honors  lightly  enough. 
But  he  was  to  find  Eve,  and  he  meant  to  go  to  her  as 
befitted  his  quest,  the  very  antithesis  of  the  bearded 
savage  whose  embraces  had  filled  her  with  so  much 
horror. 

By  noon,  the  task  was  done;  at  least,  so  far  as  it 
could  be  done  without  waiting  for  clothes  to  be  made 
to  order.  It  was  a  very  differenHooking  individual, 
indeed,  who  asked  for  his  key  at  the  hotel,  at  luncheon 
time ;  the  clerk  was  at  first  a  little  dubious,  but,  when 
Randall  laughingly  explained  the  circumstances,  he 
suggested  changing  him  to  a  more  expensive  room  at 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  263 

once.  The  man  of  the  night  before  in  his  pea-jacket 
and  cheap  hand-me-down  suit,  had  not  created  a  very 
favorable  impression,  and  had  been  disposed  of  ac- 
cordingly. 

Eandall  was  too  deeply  concerned  with  the  matter  in 
hand  to  care  greatly  about  his  quarters.  He  ate  a  hasty 
luncheon,  and  once  more  set  out,  this  time  to  the  office 
of  the  P.  &  O.  Steamship  Co. 

There  was,  it  appeared,  a  vast  deal  of  red  tape  con- 
nected with  the  securing  of  the  information  he  desired. 
Under  clerks  gazed  at  him  blandly  before  passing  him 
on  to  their  superiors,  and  asked  in  pointed  tones  why 
he  desired  the  information.  He  was  forced  to  invent  a 
plausible  tale,  to  the  effect  that  he  had  had  a  hand 
in  the  girl's  rescue,  and  possessed  some  information 
which  he  wished  to  give  to  her. 

His  persistence  at  last  resulted  in  success — of  a  sort. 
The  passenger  in  question,  he  was  informed,  was  a 
Miss  Jean  Rutherford,  and  she  lived  at  Eastbourne. 
This  was  all  the  information  they  appeared  willing, 
or  able,  to  give. 

Randall  returned  to  his  hotel,  tumbled  his  newly 
acquired  wardrobe  into  his  newly  acquired  trunk,  dashed 
off  a  note  to  Mr.  Taylor,  and  in  fifteen  minutes  was 
driving  furiously  toward  Victoria  Station. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

IT  was  dark  when  Randall  stepped  from  the  train 
at  Eastbourne,  and  the  drizzling  March  rain  sent  him 
hurrying  to  a  cab. 

From  a  guard  on  the  journey  down,  who  became 
agreeably  loquacious  under  the  influence  of  half  a  crown, 
he  had  learned  something  of  the  place. 

"Lively  enough/'  his  informant  had  told  him,  "in 
summer,  but  nobody  much  comes  down  this  time  of  the 
year.  American,  sir?  I  thought  as  much.  You, 
should  try  it  in  August,  sir,  or  September,  when  they 
has  the  tennis  tournament.  Afraid  you  won't  like 
it  much  now,  sir.  Hotels  ?  Plenty  of  them,  sir,  but  I 
should  advise  you  to  try  The  Inn,  in  the  old  town,  just 
now.  I  never  was  much  for  the  seashore,  in  March, 
sir.  Gives  me  the  creeps,  somehow.  Yes,  sir.  Thank 
you,  sir." 

Even  The  Inn  seemed  dismal  to  Randall,  although 
his  supper  was  well  cooked  and  appetizing,  and  his 
room  contained  a  cheerful  fire,  which  dispelled  the 
dampness  and  the  fog. 

He  made  some  inquiries  of  the  comfortable-looking 
old  woman  who  seemed  to  be  the  proprietress  of  the 
place,  and  found  her  ready  enough  to  talk. 

"Rutherfords,  sir?"  she  replied,  in  answer  to  his 

264 


A  LOST  PABADISE.  265 

>• 

first  question.  "Oh,  yes,  sir.  Fine  old  family,  sir. 
Live  about  half  a  mile  from  here,  sir,  not  far  from 
Compton  Place — that's  the  Duke's  place,  sir.  Duke 
of  Devonshire,  sir,  though  he  rarely  ever  comes  here. 
Are  you  a  friend  of  the  Kutherfords,  sir  ?" 

"No,"  Eandall  laughed.  "That  is,  not  exactly.  I— I 
think  I've  met  Miss  Eutherford." 

"Miss  Jean,  I  take  it  you  means,  sir." 

Eandall  nodded. 

"Not  a  sweeter  young  lady  in  the  county,  sir,  nor 
a  better  one,  as  many  a  poor  family  has  good  cause  to 
know.  Ever  since  she  came  back  from  abroad,  last 
winter,  she's  done  nothing  but  work  among  the  poor* 
Seems  like  she's  changed — always  sad,  and  low-spirited. 
Such  a  pity,  and  she  so  young  and  pretty!  Time  she 
had  a  good  husband,  I  say,  though  I  don't  know  as  I 
have  any  right  to  be  gossiping  about  my  betters." 

Every  word  the  old  woman  spoke  went  straight  to 
Eandall's  heart.  The  mere  fact  that  she  knew  Eve, 
his  Eve! — he  could  not  yet  bring  himself  to  think  of 
her  as  Jean — made  her  seem  like  an  old  friend. 

"Tell  me  more  about  her,"  he  said,  with  a  whimsi- 
cal smile.  "I  admire  Miss  Eutherford  more  than  I 
can  possibly  tell  you."  This,  indeed,  was  true  enough. 

"Not  much  more  to  tell,  sir.  Hawthorne  Manor, 
that's  their  place,  sir,  ain't  what  it  used  to  be,  when 
old  Mr.  Eutherford  was  alive,  and  the  young  gentle- 
men were  at  home.  Both  up  in  London  now,  sir, 
as  fine  a  pair  of  young  gentlemen  as  you'd  care  to  see. 
Old  Mr.  Eutherford  was  in  the  East  India  trade — • 
tea  and  spices,  and  such  like.  Made  a  deal  of  money, 


266  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

too,  I  hear.  Miss  Jean  lives  with  her  mother,  but  she 
has  never  been  the  same  since  she  came  back." 

Randall  felt  his  face  twitching. 

"She — she  had  an  accident,  I  understand  2"  he  ven- 
tured. 

'TTes,  the  poor  dear.  You  see,  her  brother,  Charles, 
had  to  go  out  to  some  heathen  Chinee  place — Shang- 
hai, I  believe  it  was,  though  I  can't  say  for  sure — to 
look  after  the  business,  after  the  old  gentleman  dies, 
and  he  took  Miss  Jean  along,  she  wantin'  to  see  some- 
thin'  of  the  world,  though  what  anybody  would  want 
to  go  to  such  outlandish  places  for,  I  for  one  can't 
see.  One  day,  a  terrible  storm  comes  up,  and  washes 
the  poor  child  overboard,  and  she  has  to  live  on  a  desert 
island,  like  Robinson  Crusoe,  for  months  and  months, 
with  nothin'  to  eat  but  bananas  and  cocoanuts  and 
such  like.  It's  a  wonder  she  lived  through  it,  and  she  a 
lady  born  and  raised.  I  hear  that  when  they  found 
her,  she  was  just  skin  and  bones.  A  terrible  experience, 
I  calls  it,  for  one  so  young.  When  she  came  back,  she 
seemed  well  enough,  but  all  her  brightness  was  gone. 
I  haven't  never  seen  her  smile  since.  I  hear  she  just 
prays  all  the  time,  and  visits  the  sick  and  the  afflicted. 
Poor  lamb !  Pity  she  ever  went  out  there  among  those 
heathens!  .  .  .  Will  you  go  up  to  your  room  now, 
sir?  It's  all  ready." 

Randall  followed  her,  very  thoughtful.  He  began  to 
see  what  their  months  together  on  the  island  had  meant 
to  the  girl.  Doubtless,  she  had  come  to  regard  herself 
as  a  fallen  woman  or,  at  least,  one  who,  through  force 
of  circumstances,  could  no  longer  consider  herself  a 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  267 

good  one.  He  could  picture  to  himself  the  torments 
that  must  constantly  assail  her  pure  soul,  the  bitterness 
that  she  must  feel  toward  the  brute  in  whose  arms  she 
had  found  herself  when  memory  returned.  It  was 
clear,  painfully  clear,  that,  if  he  was  ever  to  win  her 
love,  he  must  do  so  as  a  new  interest  in  her  life,  not  as 
an  old  one.  On  the  latter  basis,  he  could  bring  her 
but  additional  suffering.  It  would  be  useless  to  go  to 
her  and  tell  her  who  he  was.  She  would  be  overcome 
with  embarrassment,  with  shame,  and  doubtless  refuse 
to  listen  to  him.  Yet  how  was  he  to  meet  her,  in  this 
place,  in  which  he  was  entirely  unknown  ?  The  problem 
was,  indeed,  a  difficult  one.  He  drew  from  his  pocket 
ia  tiny  leather-covered  box,  and  took  out  the  roughly 
carved  band  of  red  coral,  which  had  been  their  wedding 
ring.  Was  ever  a  more  fantastic  situation?  Within 
half  a  mile  of  where  he  now  sat  was  his  wife — the 
woman  he  loved  better  than  anything  in  the  world,  and 
she  did  not  know  his  name,  would  not,  in  fact,  know 
him,  should  she  meet  him  face  to  face.  He  crawled 
into  bed,  impatient  for  the  coming  of  the  day.  What 
to  do  he  did  not  yet  know,  but  one  thing  he  had  deter- 
mined upon:  he  would  see  her — speak  to  her,  at  the 
very  earliest  opportunity.  The  rest  was  on  the  knees 
of  the  gods. 

The  morning  dawned  bright  and  clear,  with  an  elusive 
spring  freshness  in  the  air.  Eandall  rose  early,  and 
dawdled  over  his  breakfast  until  nearly  half-past 
eight.  Then,  with  a  cheery  nod  from  the  old  woman 
who  had  been  his  informant  the  night  before,  he  set  off 
in  the  direction  of  Compton  Place. 


268  'A  LOST  PAEADISE. 

By  questioning  a  postman  making  the  morning 
rounds,  He  found  his  way,  without  much  difficulty,  to 
Hawthorne  Manor.  It  proved  to  be  a  charming  old 
house  of  weather-beaten  and  moss-stained  brick,  set  in 
a  tiny  park,  with  a  high  brick  wall  about  it.  Through 
the  trellised  green  gate  he  saw  a  gravel  road,  leading 
through  the  boxwood  and  rose-bushes  to  a  porticoed  door. 
"No  one  was  about,  with  the  exception  of  an  old  man, 
evidently  a  gardener,  who  was  trimming  the  rose-bushes 
with  methodical  care.  He  glanced  carelessly  toward  the 
gate,  as  Eandall  paused  before  it,  called  to  a  collie 
that  was  awakening  the  echoes  with  his  shrill  barks,  and 
went  on  with  his  work. 

Randall  was  in  desperation.  He  could  not  pause 
longer  at  the  gateway,  without  attracting  attention. 
To  remain  in  the  vicinity  for  any  length  of  time  would 
probably  lay  him  open  to  the  charge  of  being  a  sus- 
picious character.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  walk  on. 

He  did  so,  with  a  fierce  longing  to  see  Eve  in  his 
heart.  All  these  months  he  had  loved  her  with  an 
ever-increasing  passion.  At  times  it  had  seemed  almost 
as  though  he  could  not  wait  until  the  moment  should 
come  when  .he  could  hold  her  once  more  in  his  arms. 
And  now,  facing  that  closed  and  silent  gateway,  he  felt 
himself  further  away  than  he  had  at  any  time  since  she 
left  him  on  the  island.  Between  them  stretched  a  gulf 
of  worldly  customs  and  conventions,  which  he  could 
see  no  way  to  cross. 

When  he  had  walked  some  five  hundred  yards  in  the 
direction  of  the  new  town,  he  turned,  and  began  to 
retrace  his  steps.  It  seemed  incredible  that,  having 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  269 

come  so  many  thousands  of  miles  to  find  her,  he  should 
now  turn  away,  baffled,  from  her  very  door.  Once  more, 
walking  alongside  the  ivy-covered  brick  wall,  he  ap- 
proached the  gate.  He  could  hear  the  dog  barking 
within,  and  the  sound  of  someone  coming  swiftly  along 
the  gravel  path.  From  the  trees  in  the  park  came  the 
sound  of  birds,  chattering  in  the  morning  sunshine. 

And  then,  he  heard  the  gate  creak  slowly  open,  and 
his  heart  almost  stood  still.  There  before  him,  and  not 
ten  paces  away,  was  Eve,  looking  very  sweet  and  lovely, 
coming  toward  him  with  a  swinging  step,  her  splendid 
head  held  high,  her  face  paler  than  when  he  had  last 
seen  her,  with  an  indefinable  expression  of  sadness  upon 
it,  which  came  near  to  breaking  his  heart. 

Before  he  realized  it,  he  had  started  toward  her, 
his  arms  a  trifle  extended,  as  though  about  to  take  her 
to  his  heart.  The  movement  was  involuntary,  prompted 
solely  by  the  love  that  swept  through  him  like  a  flame. 

She  had  nearly  reached  him,  by  now,  and  seemed 
suddenly  to  become  aware  of  his  presence.  Her  eyes 
swept  over  him  with  the  cool  and  indifferent  stare  of 
the  high-bred  woman  noting,  for  a  brief  moment,  a 
passing  stranger.  If  anything  in  his  manner  attracted 
her  attention,  she  gave  no  evidence  of  it.  Randall 
realized  instantly  that  she  did  not  know  him,  that  his 
presence  meant  nothing  to  her  whatever. 

In  a  moment  she  had  passed,  sweeping  by  with  the 
long  easy  stride  of  the  practised  walker.  Randall  knew 
that  stride  well — often  had  it  successfully  matched  his 
own  in  a  five-mile  walk  upon  the  beach. 

She  almost  brushed  his  arm  with  hers  in  passing, 


270  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

and  for  an  instant  there  came  to  him  a  sweet  and  tender 
fragrance  that  made  him  tremble.  Then  she  was  gone. 
At  first  he  was  tempted  to  follow,  but  realized  the 
futility  of  it.  Already  he  feared  that  his  actions,  his 
expression,  as  she  passed  him,  had  been  such  as  to 
attract  her  attention.  To  do  so  still  further  would  be 
but  to  place  additional  barriers  between  them.  Taking 
a  firm  grip  upon  his  shaking  nerves,  Randall  turned, 
and  strode  frantically  off  in  the  direction  of  the  sea. 
He  wanted  to  be  alone — to  think.  There  must  be  some 
way  out  of  this  grotesque,  this  unbearable,  situation. 
But  what  was  it — what  was  it  ?  Try  as  he  would,  he 
could  find  no  answer. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THE  beach  at  Eastbourne  is  more  or  less  marred 
by  a  great  iron  pier,  projecting  from  the  Esplanade, 
and  flanked  by  a  theatre,  a  cycling  track,  tennis  courts, 
and  various  other  amusement  devices  dear  to  the  heart 
of  the  seaside  visitor. 

Randall  gazed  at  them  with  indifference,  not  un- 
mixed with  dislike,  for  in  his  present  mood  the  things 
of  men  annoyed  him.  He  wanted  to  get  close  down 
to  the  sea  which  he  so  greatly  loved. 

He  wandered  about  for  a  time,  and  at  last  found 
a  flight  of  stone  steps,  leading  down  from  the  Espla- 
nade to  the  sand. 

In  a  few  moments  he  had  reached  the  beach,  and 
began  to  walk  slowly  along  it,  flinging  pebbles  into 
the  sea,  the  while  he  cudgeled  his  brains  for  some 
means  whereby  he  might  make  Miss  Rutherford's 
acquaintance.  The  very  thought  of  seeking  out  some 
third  person,  to  introduce  him  to  the  woman  who  for 
four  months  had  slept  with  her  head  on  his  breast, 
seemed  ludicrous,  and  yet  the  element  of  tragedy  in 
the  situation  left  him  almost  distracted.  In  all  Eng- 
land, he  knew  no  one  but  Mr.  Taylor,  and  Mr.  Merry- 
man,  neither  of  whom,  he  felt  certain,  could  be  of  the 
least  assistance  to  him  in  obtaining  an  introduction 

271 


272  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

to  a  girl  living  down  in  Eastbourne.  The  situation 
was  exasperating — maddening.  He  flung  a  pebble 
viciously  at  the  tumbling  surf,  and  in  helpless  rage 
cursed  the  conventions  that  held  Eve  and  himself 
apart. 

As  he  strolled  along  toward  the  west,  he  saw  a 
slender  pole,  some  five  feet  long,  lying  half-buried  in 
the  sand.  It  appeared  to  be  the  broken  end  of  a 
boat-hook,  and  bore  a  faint  resemblance  to  the  shark- 
tooth  spear  that  he  had  found  so  useful  on  the  island. 
He  picked  it  up,  and  began  throwing  it  at  a  bit  of 
rock  near  the  side  of  the  cliff. 

The  exercise  warmed  him;  the  March  day,  in  spite 
of  the  sunshine,  held  more  than  a  suspicion  of  chill. 
He  had  become  fairly  proficient  in  throwing  the  spear, 
during  the  island  days;  now,  the  effort  to  strike  the 
piece  of  rock  served  to  relieve  the  tension  of  his  over- 
wrought nerves. 

For  half  an  hour  he  continued  his  efforts,  smiling 
grimly  whenever  he  managed  to  plant  the  pole  fairly 
upon  the  mark.  So  engrossed  did  he  become  in  his 
task  that  he  did  not  observe  a  girlish  figure  standing 
on  the  chalk  cliff  above  his  head,  watching  him  with 
tense  face  and  an  expression  of  eager  wonder. 

Suddenly,  by  some  chance,  he  glanced  up,  and  saw 
her.  At  once  he  realized  that  it  was  Eve,  and  that 
her  gaze  was  fixed  upon  him.  He  gave  an  exclamation 
of  surprise,  and  she,  too,  startled  by  his  cry,  stepped 
back,  dropping  as  she  did  so  a  walking  stick  that  she 
had  held  in  her  hand. 

It  tumbled  noisily  down  over  the  rocks.     Randall, 


A  LOST  PAEADISE.  273 

inwardly  offering  up  thanks  to  the  fates  who  had  so 
quickly  solved  his  problem,  recovered  it,  and  holding 
it  in  his  hand,  clambered  up  to  where  she  stood. 

The  girl  had  scarcely  taken  her  eyes  from  him, 
and  in  them  stirred  some  suggestion  of  memory  that 
seemed  compounded  of  both  joy  and  fear.  She  was 
still  regarding  him  with  this  curious  stare,  when  he 
came  up  to  her,  and  handed  her  back  the  stick. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  and  made  as  though  to  turn 
away.  Randall's  heart  sank,  but  for  some  reason  she 
changed  her  mind.  "You — you  were  throwing  that — 
that  stick  as  though  you  had  done  it — often.  Would 
you  mind  telling  me  why  you — you  did  it — where 
you  learned  to — to — ?"  She  hesitated,  stopped,  and 
gazed  at  him  in  some  embarrassment. 

"Oh,  I  used  to  do  it,  as  a  boy,"  Eandall  replied, 
forcing  a  laugh.  "It  was  a  bit  chilly  on  the  beach, 
and  I — I  thought  it  might  warm  me  up."  He  looked 
closely  at  her,  fearful  that  in  some  remote  way  she 
might  recognize  him.  Doubtless,  the  sight  of  him  on 
the  beach,  throwing  the  spear,  had  stirred  within  her 
some  thread  of  memory  that  led  deep  into  the  for- 
gotten past. 

The  impulse,  whatever  it  was,  that  had  caused  her 
to  turn  back  and  speak  to  him,  began  to  pass  away, 
and  the  look  of  reserve  crept  once  more  into  her  eyes. 
Eandall,  afraid  that  she  meant  to  pass  on  and  leave 
him,  plunged  desperately. 

"I — I'm  an  American,"  he  said,  hastily,  as  though 
in  some  way  defending  himself.  "I've  never  been  at 
Eastbourne  before.  You  see,  I  am  a  writer — a  play- 


274  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

wright.  I  have  a  play  now  being  performed  at  The 
Oberon,  in  London.  'The  Long  Lane'  it's  called.  Per- 
haps you  have  heard  of  it." 

She  regarded  him  with  a  grave  smile,  apparently 
trying  to  determine  whether  or  not  to  resent  his  ad- 
vances. 

"I — I  don't  go  to  theatre  very  often,"  she  said. 
"I'm  afraid  I  must  leave  you  now."  Again  she  turned 
from  him. 

A  narrow  and  irregular  path,  wandering  along  the 
edge  of  the  chalk  cliff,  caught  Randall's  eye.  It  led 
toward  a  bold  headland,  which  rose  against  the  blue 
of  the  sky  some  three  miles  to  the  westward.  So 
many  times  had  he  and  this  girl  walked  hand  in  hand 
over  the  rocks !  To  have  her  leave  him  now  seemed 
an  incredible  thing,  not  to  be  borne. 

"Please,  let  me  walk  along  with  you,"  he  said. 
There  was  a  note  of  appeal  in  his  voice,  which  the 
girl  did  not  fail  to  observe. 

Her  eyes  searched  his  face,  a  startled  look  in  them. 

"But— why  ?"  she  began. 

tci — I  haven't  anyone  to  talk  to.  I  don't  know  a 
soul  in  all  England.  It's  terrible — to  be  so  lonely. 
If  you  will  let  me  just  walk  beside  you — to  the  end 
of  the  path  and  back,  I'll  not  even  speak,  if  you  don't 
want  me  to." 

She  continued  to  regard  him  intently  for  a  few 
moments;  then  the  sight  of  his  wo-begone  face  caused 
a  little  ripple  of  laughter  to  brush  away  her  reserve. 

"Come  along  then,  if  you  like,"  she  cried,  and  set 
off  down  the  path. 


'A  LOST  PARADISE.  275 

In  that  moment  of  laughter  she  became  transformed. 
The  spirit  of  Pan,  the  joyous  freedom  of  untram- 
meled  nature,  danced  in  her  eyes.  Once  more  she 
was  the  happy  care-free  girl,  who  had  shared  his  soli- 
tude, and  flooded  it  with  the  sunshine  of  her  love. 
Thoughts  of  the  past  held  him  silent;  he  walked  be- 
side her  for  many  minutes  without  uttering  a  word. 

"I'm  a  good  walker,"  she  remarked  after  a  time, 
without  looking  at  him. 

"Yes,  I — I  know."  He  spoke  absently,  his  mind  on 
the  past. 

"How  do  you  know  ?"  Again  her  quick  glance  played 
over  him. 

He  recovered  himself  instantly. 

"I  have  to  step  out,"  he  said,  "to  keep  up  with 
you.  Do  you  walk  a  great  deal  ?" 

"Oh,  yes — every  day.  Out  to  Beachey  Head  and 
back."  She  pointed  to  the  towering  chalk  cliff  in 
the  distance.  "I  love  the  sea.  It  is  my  only  happi- 
ness— almost." 

"Why  ?"  It  was  a  dangerous  question,  and  he  knew 
it,  but  the  word  was  out  almost  before  he  realized  its 
significance. 

It  was  some  little  while  before  she  answered  him, 
and  then  she  spoke  slowly,  choosing  her  words  with 
care. 

"I — I  spent  some  months  once,  on  an  island.  I 
remember  very  little  about  it — almost  nothing,  in 
fact,  that  is  tangible.  But  the  sight  of  the  ocean,  the 
salt  smell  of  it,  the  sunshine  on  the  beach,  the  roar 
of  the  surf — those  things  always  make  me  glad,  give* 


276  'A  LOST  PARADISE. 

me  a  curious  happiness.  I  can't  account  for  it,  but 
that's  why  I  walk  along  here,  every  day.  Sometimes 
I  sit  on  the  rocks,  and  watch  the  surf  for  hours.  I 
love  it." 

Kandall  wondered  at  her  frankness,  but  her  words 
made  him  very  happy.  Somewhere  deep  in  her  sub- 
conscious mind,  the  happiness  of  their  hours  together 
remained,  like  the  perfume  of  flowers  long  since 
withered  and  forgotten. 

"I  love  the  sea  myself,"  he  said,  carelessly,  not 
wishing  to  pursue  the  subject  of  her  island  life 
further,  for  fear  more  unpleasant  memories  might  be 
stirred.  "I  intend  to  stay  in  Eastbourne  quite  a  while. 
It  rests  me,  after  the  city.  Do  you  go  to  London 
often?" 

""No.  I  don't  like  it.  My  brothers  live 
there.  Sometimes  I  go  up  and  see  them  for  a  day  or 
two — shopping,  you  know.  But  I'm  always  glad  to  get 
back  to  my  ocean."  She  threw  a  loving  glance  toward 
the  sea.  "Look — out  there,  where  the  sun  strikes  be- 
yond the  shadow  of  that  cloud.  Isn't  it  a  wonderful 
color — peacock  blue,  shot  with  Nile  green?  I'd  love 
to  paint  it — or  write  about  it,  as  you  do." 

"I  wish  you'd  come  up  to  London  sometime,  and 
see  my  play/'  Randall  ventured. 

"I  expect  to  go  up  on  Thursday.  It's  at  The  Oberon, 
you  say  ?  I'll  get  my  brother  to  take  me." 

"And  might  I  come  and  speak  to  you?  Perhaps 
you  and  your  brother  would  go  to  supper  with  me." 

"I  don't  think  that  would  be  possible.  I'm  afraid 
I've  done  an  awful  thing  in  speaking  to  you  at  alL 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  277 

Of  course,  I  can  see  that  you  are  a  gentleman,  but 
such  things  aren't  done."  The  conventional  woman 
was  speaking  now.  "What  could  I  say  to  my  brother  ?" 

"But,"  he  argued,  "I'm  a  sort  of  privileged  character, 
you  know.  People  always  like  to  meet  actors,  and 
authors,  and — and  dramatists.  I  might  get  the  man- 
ager of  the  theatre  to  introduce  me." 

She  joined  merrily  in  his  laugh.  "I'm  afraid  that 
wouldn't  do.  I  don't  know  the  manager  of  the  theatre. 
Haven't  you  any  friends  in  London,  at  all  ?" 

"Not  a  one."  He  smiled  gloomily.  "Can't  we  ar- 
range a  runaway,  or  an  accident  of  some  sort,  so  that 
I  can  save  your  life?  Then  you'd  have  to  know  me, 
if  only  out  of  gratitude." 

"I  might  tumble  off  the  cliff,"  she  laughed,  stepping 
to  the  edge  airily. 

For  a  moment  it  seemed  to  Randall  that  she  had 
actually  placed  herself  in  danger.  Her  feet  touched 
the  very  edge  of  the  rock.  Impulsively  he  grasped 
her  arm. 

"Don't,"  he  said,  and  drew  her  back  into  the  path. 

The  momentary  contact  thrilled  them  both.  Ran- 
dall could  scarcely  restrain  himself  from  taking  her 
in  his  arms,  and  covering  her  face  with  his  kisses. 

"Eve — Eve!"  he  said  to  himself.  "I'm  never  go- 
ing to  let  you  go  away  from  me,  dear,  as  long  as  I 
live." 

Outwardly,  he  showed  no  evidence  of  his  emotion. 

"I  have  a  friend — a  Mr.  Taylor — in  London.  He 
is  an  American,  but  he  belongs  to  several  clubs,  and 


278  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

knows  a  lot  of  people.  Perhaps  lie  could  get  me  an 
introduction  to  your  brother.  I'll  try." 

"That  would  be  better,"  she  said.  And  then: 
"Doesn't  it  seem  queer  that  two  people  who  like  each 
other  should  be  obliged  to  get  the  consent  of  a  third, 
whom  they  may  not  like  at  all,  before  they  can  even 
speak?" 

"May  I  assume  from  that,"  Randall  exclaimed, 
"that  you  like  me  ?" 

"At  least,  well  enough  to  be  walking  to  Beachy 
Head  with  you,  which  is  something  I've  never  done 
before — with  a  perfect  stranger.  In  some  queer  way, 
you  remind  me  of  someone  I  have  known,  though  for 
the  life  of  me  I  can't  tell  who.  That  was  why  I 
stopped  and  looked  at  you  first.  I  hope  you  won't 
think  any  the  less  of  me,  for  being  so — free.  I  know 
I  ought  not  to  have  done  it,  but — "  She  hesitated. 

"If  you  knew  how  much  it  has  meant  to  me,"  he 
began,  with  enthusiasm;  and  then,  checking  himself, 
went  on  rather  lamely.  "You  see,  I  was  awfully 
lonely,  and  I  am  deeply  grateful  to  you  for  talking  to 
me.  I've  been  worrying  a  lot  about  something  and 
it — it  isn't  easy  to  be  alone — when  you  have  something 
on  your  mind." 

"A  girl  ?"  she  said,  laughing. 

"Yes,  a  girl.  I'm  very  much  in  love  with  her,  and 
I  haven't  seen  her  for  a  long  time — at  least — "  He 
paused,  and  looked  at  her,  a  great  longing  in  his  eyes. 

"You'll  be  going  back  to  America  soon." 

Again,  Randall  was  silent,  although  it  Was  on  the 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  279 

point  of  his  tongue  to  say  that  the  girl  in  question 
was  much  nearer  to  him  than  America. 

"It's  all  over  now,"  he  said.  "I  don't  expect  to 
go  back  for  a  long  time." 

When  they  reached  the  top  of  Beachy  Head,  a  fine 
view  of  the  sea  lay  before  them.  For  a  long  time 
they  stood  in  silence,  watching  the  play  of  color  on 
the  surface  of  the  water,  as  the  sunlight  shifted  through 
the  clouds. 

"Sometimes  I  feel  like  setting  out  and  going  'way 
off,  where  everything  is — different,  and  never,  never 
coming  back  again,"  she  said. 

"To  some  tropic  isle,  where  it  is  warm  and  golden, 
and  people  are  not  afraid  to  laugh  and  to  love,"  Ran- 
dall suggested,  watching  her  face. 

She  colored,  and  turned  quickly  to  him. 
"Why  did  you  say  that  ?"  she  asked. 
"It's  a  dream  I've  had,  all  my  life,"  he  returned, 
his  face  impassive.  "Most  people  have  it,  I  think, 
at  one  time  or  another.  We  are  so  apt  to  become  weary 
of  the  conventional  things  of  life.  Imagine  living  on 
fruit  and  fish,  and — and  just  whatever  you  could  get, 
and  running  on  the  beach,  like  children,  and  bathing 
in  the  warm  tropic  sea — and — the  stars  at  night,  like 
fairy  lanterns  against  the  velvet  sky,  and  the  night 
winds,  and — peace."  His  voice  trembled ;  he  realized 
that  it  was  folly  on  his  part  to  speak  as  he  did,  but 
a  vague  idea  possessed  him  that  by  bridging  the  chasm 
in  her  memory  the  past  might  slowly  come  back  to 
her,  and  with  it  her  love  for  him.  His  courage  failed 
him,  however,  as  he  saw  the  flash  of  pain  that  quivered 


280  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

across  her  face.  "I've  dreamed  that  so  often,"  he 
went  on,  in  a  lighter  tone.  "When  I've  been  tired 
out  and  nervous  and  ill.  But  it's  only  a  dream.  I 
have  my  work  to  do.  I  fancy  I'll  never  find  my 
dream  island." 

His  tone  apparently  reassured  her,  but  her  agita- 
tion did  not  at.  once  pass  away. 

"Let  us  go  back  now,"  she  said.  "I  must  be  home 
for  luncheon  at  one.  Do  you  know,  I'm  rather  glad 
we  met  to-day.  You  interest  me  curiously — as  though 
you  had  thought  the  same  thoughts  that  I  have,  for 
a  long  time." 

They  parted  at  the  Esplanade.  Nothing  was  said  by 
either  of  them,  beyond  a  conventional  good-by,  but 
each  knew  that  they  would  see  each  other  again. 

Eandall  watched  the  girl  as  she  disappeared  in  the 
direction  of  the  town,  and  his  heart  sang  with  joy. 
A  little  later  he  returned  to  The  Inn  and  wrote  a  long 
letter  to  Mr.  Taylor. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

IT  took  Mr.  Taylor  three  days  to  find  a  man  in  one 
of  his  clubs,  who  knew  a  man  in  another  club  of  which 
Mr.  Charles  Rutherford  was  a  member.  His  intro- 
duction to  the  latter  was  quite  casual.  During  the 
course  of  a  ten-minute  conversation,  he  referred  to 
Randall's  curious  experience.  It  was  a  matter  of 
general  interest.  Rutherford  had  read  of  it,  in  The 
Times. 

"Remarkable!"  he  exclaimed.  "The  idea  of  walk- 
ing down  the  Strand,  with  a  shilling  of  two  in  one's 
pocket,  and  suddenly  discovering  that  one  had  made 
a  fortune  I  You  know  this  chap,  Randall,  I  suppose  ?" 

"Yes,  very  well.  Charming  fellow,  too.  By  the 
way,  have  you  seen  the  play  ?" 

"KTo.  I've  been  meaning  to  go  for  some  time,  but 
things  came  up — " 

"If  you'd  care  to  go  to-morrow  night,"  Mr.  Taylor 
suggested  carelessly,  "I  happen  to  have  a  box  that 
I'm  not  going  to  use." 

Rutherford  raised  his  eyebrows.  Offers  of  boxes 
at  The  Oberon,  from  chance  acquaintances,  seemed  a 
bit  out  of  the  ordinary. 

"Jolly  kind  of  you,  I  must  say,"  he  remarked,  "but 

281 


282  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

I  couldn't  think  of  it,  you  know.  Besides,  my  mother 
and  sister  are  coming  up  from  Eastbourne  to-morrow, 
and  I'll  be  no  end  busy  lookin'  after  them." 

"Why  not  bring  them,  too?  I'm  sure  they  would 
enjoy  it."  Mr.  Taylor  knew  very  well  that  Jean  and 
her  mother  were  coming  to  town  the  next  day,  having 
been  so  informed  by  a  letter  from  Randall  that  morn- 
ing. 

"I  don't  doubt  it,  but  I  couldn't  think  of  imposing 
on  you." 

Taylor  took  an  envelope  from  his  pocket,  and  thrust 
it  into  Mr.  Rutherford's  by  no  means  unwilling  hand. 

"Take  them,"  he  said.  "I'd  appreciate  your  com- 
ing, and  so  would  Mr.  Randall.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
he's  a  total  stranger  here  in  London,  and  would  greatly 
enjoy  meeting  a  few  really  interesting  people.  I'll 
bring  him  to  the  box,  and  introduce  him.  You'd  like 
him  immensely,  I  know.  Can  tell  you  some  remark- 
able stories  of  his  wanderings  in  the  Far  East.  You 
know  that  country  yourself,  I  understand." 

"Rather !  Been  to  Hong  Kong  and  Shanghai  twice. 
Got  caught  in  a  typhoon  once,  and  my  sister  was 
washed  overboard,  and  nearly  lost  her  life." 

"Indeed !  Then  you  and  Randall  will  get  along 
famously.  He's  becoming  quite  a  celebrity  now,  on 
account  of  the  success  of  his  play.  Take  the  seats, 
and  be  sure  to  come.  I  haven't  anyone  else  to  give 
them  to,  so  you  might  as  well  have  them  as  not." 

It  is  curious  how  the  average  person  regards  an  offer 
of  tickets  to  the  theatre.  Even  men  perfectly  able 
to  buy  out  the  entire  house,  were  they  so  inclined, 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  283 

almost  invariably  feel  a  peculiar  satisfaction  in 
obtaining  seats  of  a  complimentary  nature.  Ruther- 
ford was  no  exception  to  the  rule.  Perhaps  he  looked 
upon  Mr.  Taylor  as  merely  another  example  of  the 
eccentric  and  impossible-to-understand  American.  At 
any  rate,  he  took  the  seats,  and  Taylor  wrote  a  note 
to  Randall,  at  Eastbourne,  informing  him  of  the  suc- 
cess of  his  strategy. 

Randall  had  arrived  in  Eastbourne  on  a  Friday 
night,  and  Saturday  saw  his  first  meeting  with  Jean 
Rutherford.  The  following  morning,  he  sought  for 
her  in  vain. 

It  was  a  beautiful  day,  warmer  than  the  preceding 
one  had  been,  with  a  soft  spring-like  note  in  the  lazy 
south  wind.  Randall  sat  upon  the  edge  of  the  low, 
chalk  cliff,  near  the  point  where  he  and  Eve  had  met 
the  day  before,  with  one  eye  upon  the  sea,  and  the 
other  searching  the  winding  path  toward  the  Espla- 
nade. His  waiting,  however,  was  in  vain.  'Not  until 
the  faint  note  of  church  bells  sounded  from  the  village 
did  he  understand  the  reason  for  the  girl's  absence. 

He  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  walked  swiftly  back  to 
the  town.  Opposite  The  Inn  there  was,  he  remem- 
bered, a  quaint  old  church  of  gray  stone,  overgrown 
with  ivy. 

Many  people  were  entering,  as  he  approached — vil- 
lagers in  their  Sunday  best,  farmers  from  the  neigh- 
boring country,  and  a  sprinkling  of  the  gentry,  who 
drove  up  in  their  motor  cars,  or  the  more  archaic 
village  carts  and  phaetons.  There  was  an  atmosphere 
of  peace,  of  old-world  simplicity,  about  the  quiet  vil- 


284  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

lage  street,  which  even  the  purring  of  the  occasional 
automobiles  could  not  destroy. 

He  went  into  the  church,  cool  and  dark,  save  for 
the  splashes  of  color  from  the  stained-glass  windows, 
and  sat  down  in  one  of  the  rear  pews,  given  over  to 
the  use  of  strangers. 

As  soon  as  his  eyes  became  accustomed  to  the  sub- 
dued light,  he  began  to  look  for  Eve,  but  was  unable 
to  find  her. 

After  a  time  he  concluded  that  his  intuition  must 
Have  been  at  fault,  or  else  that  she  had  gone  to  some 
other  church.  The  thought  made  him  restless,  ill  at 
ease.  It  seemed  impossible  even  to  contemplate  pass- 
ing the  long  day  without  a  sight  of  her. 

And  then,  quite  unexpectedly,  he  saw  her  advanc- 
ing up  the  aisle,  with  an  elderly  woman  in  black, 
whose  gravely  sweet  face  suggested  in  a  remote  way 
that  of  Eve  herself.  Eandall  knew  that  it  was  her 
mother;  he  felt  very  happy,  as  he  saw  them  take  their 
places  in  one  of  the  side  pews,  about  half-way  up  the 
aisle. 

From  where  he  sat,  he  could  see  the  girl's  face  in 
profile,  and  he  feasted  his  eyes  upon  her,  to  the  exclu- 
sion of  all  thoughts  of  the  service.  When  his  neigh- 
bors rose,  he  rose  likewise,  and  during  the  responses 
and  the  singing  he  listened  eagerly  for  the  clear  notes 
of  her  voice.  Sometimes  he  could  distinguish  them, 
through  the  maze  of  sound,  and,  when  he  did,  it  gave 
him  a  singular  satisfaction. 

The  simple  beauty  of  the  service  made  Eandall 
realize,  as  he  had  not  done  for  a  long  time,  the  inher- 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  285 

ent  power  of  conventional  things.  Not  a  religious  man, 
he  found  himself  filled  with  the  spirit  of  religion, 
the  desire  to  render  justly  and  fairly  unto  others,  the 
impulse  to  bow  in  humility  before  some  all-powerful, 
yet  beneficent,  ruler  of  the  Universe.  A  feeling  of 
thankfulness  swept  over  him  for  the  blessings  he  had 
received,  and  above  all  for  the  fact  that  he  had  found 
the  woman  who  meant  more  to  him  than  life  itself. 

When  the  services  came  to  a  close,  he  left  the  church 
at  once,  and,  crossing  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  street, 
watched  the  departing  crowd.  Eve  and  her  mother 
entered  a  phaeton,  driven  by  a  diminutive  groom,  and 
were  presently  whirled  away  in  the  direction  of  Haw- 
thorne Manor.  So  far  as  he  was  concerned,  the  day 
was  done. 

The  following  morning  he  fared  better.  Jean  came 
swinging  along  the  path  at  a  little  after  ten,  quite 
evidently  looking  for  him. 

He  rose  from  his  nook  among  the  rocks  and  bowed. 

"Good-morning,"  he  said.  "I'm  awfully  glad  you've 
come." 

"Oh,  I  always  do.  Every  morning.  I  told  you  that." 
Her  manner  was  very  friendly,  as  she  swung  along 
beside  him. 

"You  didn't  yesterday." 

"Neither  did  you.     I  saw  you  at  church." 

He  wondered  at  this.  He  had  not  seen  her  look 
toward  him. 

"Did  you?  I  was  here  before,  though.  It  didn't 
seem  the  same  at  all,  without  you." 

She  turned,  laughingly. 


286  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

"Compliments  already.  You're  getting  on.  I've 
always  heard  that  you  Americans  were  rather — rapid." 

"I  didn't  mean  it  for  a  compliment.  It  was  the 
truth.  I  missed  you.  I  feel,  somehow,  as  though  we 
had  walked  beside  the  sea  many  times — " 

"Do  you  know,"  she  interrupted  him,  "so  do  I! 
That's  the  queer  thing  about  you.  Ever  since  Satur- 
day I've  been  puzzling  my  poor  brain,  trying  to  find 
out  who  it  is  that  you  remind  me  of,  but  it  won't 
come."  A  momentary  frown  clouded  her  face. 
"Sometimes,"  she  went  on,  "I  feel  as  though  it  wasn't 
anybody  else  at  all,  but  just — yourself.  I  realize  the 
absurdity  of  it,  of  course;  for  we  couldn't  possibly 
have  met.  You've  never  been  in  England  before,  you 
say,  and  I've  never  been  in  America.  I'm  afraid  we'll 
have  to  fall  back  upon  a  previous  incarnation." 

"When  you  were  a  princess,  on  that  tropic  isle," 
Randall  ventured,  "and  I  was  your  devoted  slave." 

The  mention  of  the  island  brought  deeper  lines  to 
her  face,  and  Randall  regretted  his  remark  at  once. 

"You  must  not  speak  of  that  again,"  she  said, 
quickly.  "I  can't  tell  you  why,  but  you  mustn't.  It 
seems  silly  to  you,  I  suppose ;  but  there  is  something — 
something  I  want  very  much  to  forget — something 
I  dare  not  think  about."  There  were  tears  in  her  eyes 
now.  "Please  don't  think  me  absurd,"  she  went  on. 
"I— I  can't  help  it." 

Randall's  conscience  smote  him. 

"I'm  so  sorry !"  he  said,  his  voice  very  gentle.  "I'll 
never  speak  of  it  again.  I  have  hoped  so  much  that 
we  may  be  friends!  I  can't  tell  you  how.  much.  I 


rA  LOST  PAEADISE.  287 

know  you  will  think  it  queer  for  me  to  say  that,  when 
I've  only  met  you  once,  but  I'm  in  earnest — really 
and  truly  in  earnest.  I  feel  about  you,  as  you  say 
you  do  about  me — as  though  I'd  known  you  all  my 
life.  Those  things  happen  in  this  world,  and,  although 
we  may  not  be  able  to  explain  them,  they  are  none 
the  less  real.  I  know  what  your  life,  your  training 
has  been.  It  must  seem  very  strange  to  you,  to  be 
talking  in  this  way  to  a  perfect  stranger;  but  even 
though  you  try  to  make  a  stranger  of  me,  you  cannot, 
for  the  other  thing  is  stronger,  and  it  must  mean  some- 
thing, or  it  would  not  exist." 

"I  told  my  mother  about  meeting  you,"  Eve  said, 
quickly.  "She  was  terribly  shocked,  at  first,  but  after- 
ward she  seemed  to  quite  understand.  Mother  is  a 
dear.  I  wish  you  might  know  her." 

"I  hope  to.  You  say  you  are  going  to  London 
on  Thursday  ?" 

"Yes."     She  looked  at  him  inquiringly.     "Why  ?" 

"Because  I've  asked  my  friend  Mr.  Taylor,  to  hunt 
up  your  brother,  and,  while  you  are  in  town,  I  mean 
to  be  presented  to  you  officially,"  he  laughed. 

"It  seems  almost  like  a  plot." 

"It  is — a  plot  against  the  conventions.  Within 
three  days  I  expect  to  be  able  to  say  good-morning 
to  you  without  feeling  that  I  have  committed  a  mortal 
sin." 

They  both  laughed  at  this. 

"You  don't  seem  to  be  in  the  least  repentant  to-day," 
she  exclaimed. 

"I'm  not.     As  a  matter  of  fact,  I'm  a  very  human 


288  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

sort  of  a  being,  and  even  the  Bible  tells  us  that  it 
natural  for  human  beings  to  sin.  It's  forced  on  us, 
in  fact.  Adam  attended  to  that,  I  guess — Adam  and 
Eve." 

The  word  made  her  stop  short.  He  had  spoken 
it,  quite  unconsciously,  in  the  loving  and  tender  way 
in  which  he  had  always  pronounced  her  name,  in  the 
past.  For  a  moment  they  looked  deep  into  each  other's 
eyes,  and  she  thrust  out  her  hand  toward  him  with 
a  quick  impulsive  movement. 

He  did  not  take  it,  but  stood,  looking  at  her  with 
hungry  eyes.  Her  hand  went  to  her  face,  and  she 
nervously  thrust  the  strands  of  hair  from  her  fore- 
head. 

"I — I  don't  know  what  is  the  matter  with  me,  to- 
day," she  gasped,  a  frightened  look  in  her  widening 
eyes.  "Please  don't  think  me  quite  a  fool.  Something 
that  you  said  upset  me,  for  a  moment." 

He  was  silent,  wondering  whether  it  was  some  vague 
and  shadowy  memory  of  their  days  together,  which 
had  been  aroused  by  his  words,  or  the  very  real  recol- 
lection of  her  name,  as  he  had  used  it  on  the  night 
when  she  left  him.  He  remembered  now  that  even 
after  she  had  regained  her  memory,  he  had  begged  her 
to  listen  to  him,  had  called  her  by  that  name,  only  to 
meet  with  the  horror  and  disgust  with  which  her  under- 
standing of  their  relative  positions  had  filled  her.  He 
made  up  his  mind  then  and  there  to  keep  close  watch 
over  his  tongue,  lest  he  say  something  that  would  open 
between  them  a  gulf  he  might  never  be  able  to  cross. 

Their  conversation  on  the  two  mornings  that  fol- 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  289 

lowed  was,  in  the  main,  of  themselves  and  of  their 
hopes,  and  it  brought  them  closer  to  each  other,  hour 
by  hour.  Randall  steered  clear  of  any  reference  to 
their  past.  He  told  the  girl  of  his  early  struggles,  his 
present  success,  his  plans  for  the  future,  but  made  no 
mention  of  his  wanderings  in  the  Far  East.  It  appeared 
that  she  had  not  read  the  vivid  interview  with  him, 
which  the  newspapers  had  printed,  and  consequently 
had  no  idea  that  he  had  ever  been  further  east  than 
Beachey  Head.  He  thought  it  wiser  not  to  undeceive 
her. 

Perhaps,  during  these  hours  together,  he  talked  rather 
more  of  himself  and  his  future  than  did  she  of  hers. 
Her  work  among  the  poor  of  the  parish,  to  which  she 
devoted  her  afternoons,  and  often  her  evenings  as  well, 
seemed  to  constitute  her  life.  Whenever  Randall  at- 
tempted to  draw  her  out,  to  discover  what  she  expected 
the  future  to  bring  her,  he  was  confronted  by  a  wall  of 
reserve  which  he  could  not  pass. 

Her  manner,  which  had  at  first  been  that  of  one 
calmly  and  resignedly  enduring  a  hidden  sorrow,  gradu- 
ally changed.  At  times  she  became  almost  happy,  almost 
the  joyous  creature  of  their  Paradise.  Then  she  would 
suddenly  lapse  into  fits  of  depression,  from  which  his 
utmost  efforts  failed  to  rouse  her. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said,  one  day.  "Why  are  you  so  un- 
happy, at  times?  What  is  worrying  you?  I  don't 
mean  to  pry  into  your  affairs,  you  know,  but  it  dis- 
tresses me,  to  see  you  suffer,  and  sometimes  I  know 
that  you  do." 


290  A  LOST  PAEADISE. 

She  turned  to  him  impulsively,  then  checked  her- 
self. 

"I  cannot  tell  you,"  she  exclaimed,  her  eyes  hold- 
ing a  beaten,  frightened  look  that  made  him  long  to  com- 
fort her.  "There  are  some  memories  that  make  me  suffer, 
at  times,  but  I  beg  that  you  will  never  ask  me  about 
them — never  refer  to  them  again." 

"Indeed,  I  shall  not."  In  a  moment  of  impulse 
he  took  her  hand,  and  it  made  him  very  happy,  to  find 
that  she  did  not  at  once  withdraw  it.  "We  all  have 
things  that  worry  us — that  belong  to  the  past.  I  think 
that  the  wisest  plan,  always,  is  to  let  them  stay  where 
they  belong.  Each  day  is  a  new  day — one  of  the  days 
of  our  lives.  There  are  not  so  very  many,  that  we 
can  afford  to  waste  a  single  one  in  useless  regrets." 

Something  in  his  manner  brought  her  a  sense  of 
comfort,  of  peace.  At  times  she  was  amazed  to  find 
herself  speaking  so  frankly,  so  intimately,  with  one  she 
had  known  such  a  short  time.  In  these  moments  she 
strove  to  place  barriers  between  them,  to  treat  him 
with  coldness,  with  reserve,  but  always  she  found  her- 
self drawn  to  him  by  some  irresistible  force  which  she 
was  neither  able  to  understand  nor  to  overcome. 

In  moments  of  introspection,  she  concluded  that  she 
was  really  falling  in  love  with  this  man  who  had  so 
curiously  entered  her  sheltered  and  conventional  life. 
The  thought  brought  her  no  happiness,  and  she  put  it 
aside,  and  tried  to  convince  herself  that  the  attraction 
she  felt  was  merely  the  natural  outcome  of  meeting,  in 
her  lonely  state,  an  interesting  and  congenial  per- 
sonality. 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  291 

When  they  parted,  on  the  day  before  her  trip  to 
London,  Randall  took  her  hand,  and  pressed  it  between 
both  of  his. 

"You  have  made  my  days  here  wonderfully  happy 
ones,"  he  said,  earnestly.  "I  am  sorry  that  they  are 
over.  I  am  going  to  London  myself,  to-morrow.  We 
shall  meet  there." 

She  laughed  a  somewhat  whimsical  laugh. 

"Really,  there  doesn't  seem  much  use  in  our  going 
through  the  formality  of  being  introduced  now,  does 
there?  We  seem  such  old  friends,  already!  Good- 
by."  In  a  moment  she  had  gone. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

IT  was  not  until  the  curtain  had  fallen  upon  the 
third  act  that  Randall,  accompanied  by  Mr.  Taylor, 
sought  the  box  in  which  Eve  sat  with  her  mother  and 
brother. 

Throughout  the  evening,  his  eyes  had  seldom  left 
the  girl's  face;  even  Mr.  Taylor,  standing  beside  him 
in  the  rear  of  the  theatre,  had  laughingly  given  him  up 
as  hopeless. 

"I  don't  blame  you,  my  boy,"  he  chuckled.  "If 
I'm  any  judge  of  character,  you  have  won  a  prize." 

"I  haven't  won  her — yet,"  Randall  returned,  with 
a  serious  face.  "How  do  you  like  the  brother  ?" 

"Very  much.  A  trifle  heavy,  perhaps — confirmed 
bachelor,  and  all  that.  Not  much  imagination,  but 
a  good  sort,  as  they  say  over  here.  Come  along.  The 
curtain's  down.  They're  expecting  you." 

There  was  something  about  this  mock  presentation 
that  made  Randall  feel  awkward  and  constrained. 
Mrs.  Rutherford,  who  knew  that  Eve  had  met  him  at 
Eastbourne,  smiled  upon  him  pleasantly  enough,  and 
made  him  feel  at  home  at  once.  Poor  woman! — she 
had  been  glad  enough  to  see  her  daughter  manifest  an 
interest  in  anyone;  the  girl  had  been  so  painfully 
gloomy  and  depressed  for  the  past  few  months  that  Mrs. 

292 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  293 

Rutherford  had  become  seriously  alarmed  about  her. 
She  did  not  know  the  cause ;  Eve  had  kept  the  reasons 
for  her  depression  to  herself.  But  her  mother  could 
not  fail  to  see  that  some  very  real  sorrow  was  eating 
out  her  heart,  and  hence  the  change  in  her  manner, 
since  Randall's  coming,  had  proven  a  welcome  one. 

She  even  hoped,  secretly,  that  Jean  might  fall  in 
love  with  him.  It  is  true  that  she  had  an  insular  prej- 
udice against  most  things  American;  but,  after  all, 
she  was,  like  people  in  general,  something  of  a  hero- 
worshiper,  and  the  thought  that  Randall  was  a  suc- 
cessful playwright,  whose  reputation  and  financial 
standing  were  both  established  beyond  question,  aided 
her  considerably  in  reaching  the  conclusion  that  he 
might  not  prove  entirely  unacceptable  as  a  son-in-law. 
The  fact  that  Jean  was  clearly  interested  in  him 
proved  the  deciding  factor. 

Charles  Rutherford  had  given  Randall  a  hearty 
handshake,  and  began  to  tell  him  how  greatly  they 
were  enjoying  the  play.  Eve,  too,  had  taken  his  hand 
— the  gentle  pressure  she  gave  it  was  a  real  welcome 
beneath  the  conventional  one.  Her  mother  was  in  the 
plot  to  keep  the  fact  of  their  having  previously  met 
from  Charles.  After  all,  it  was  a  harmless  deception, 
and  to  tell  him  would  result  in  no  good  to  anyone. 

They  chatted  pleasantly  for  a  few  moments,  Charles 
monopolizing  the  bulk  of  Randall's  attention.  He 
seemed  to  feel  that  the  introduction  had  been  arranged 
solely  for  his  benefit,  and  insisted  upon  dragging  Ran- 
dall off  to  the  lobby,  to  smoke  a  cigarette.  Randall 
left  unwillingly  enough,  with  a  helpless  backward 


294  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

glance  at  Eve,  and  Mr.  Taylor,  who  was  making  him- 
self agreeable  to  the  ladies,  winked  broadly  at  him, 
and  declined  the  invitation  to  smoke. 

Afterward  Randall  was  very  glad  that  he  and 
Charles  had  left  the  others.  The  latter  at  once  began 
a  series  of  questions  about  his  experiences  in  China  and 
elsewhere,  and  he  realized  that,  had  Eve  heard  the  con- 
versation, it  would  have  set  her  to  thinking  along  lines 
which  might  readily  prove  disastrous  to  his  plans. 

He  told  Rutherford,  briefly  enough,  of  his  exper- 
iences, omitting  of  course  all  reference  to  the  island, 
and  managed  after  a  time  to  turn  the  conversation  into 
other  channels. 

At  Mrs.  Rutherford's  request,  he  sat  in  their  box 
during  the  remaining  act  of  the  play,  and  was  delighted 
when  Rutherford  suggested  a  bit  of  supper  at  a  well- 
known  hotel  upon  the  Embankment,  at  which  his 
mother  and  sister  were  stopping.  Mr.  Taylor  accom- 
panied them,  and,  to  Randall's  joy,  launched  into  a 
description  of  American  ways  and  customs,  which 
absorbed  the  interest  of  both  Mrs.  Rutherford  and  their 
host,  thus  giving  him  an  opportunity  to  talk  to  Eve. 

"It  seems  awfully  good,  to  see  you  again,"  he  whis- 
pered under  the  cover  of  Taylor's  conversation.  "How 
long  are  you  to  be  in  town  ?" 

"Three  or  four  days  at  least — possibly  a  week.  And 
you?" 

"I  shall  return  to  Eastbourne  when  you  do,"  he  re- 
plied, fervently. 

The  girl  glanced  quickly  at  him,  the  old  troubled 
look  in  her  eyes. 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  295 

"Do  you  like  it  there  so  much  ?"  she  parried.  "Few 
people  do,  out  of  season." 

"I  don't  think  I'd  care  for  it — in  season  or  out  of 
it — if  you  were  not  there." 

"You  mustn't  say  such  things,  Mr.  Randall."  Her 
voice  was  very  earnest  and  trembled.  "We  are  going 
to  be  great  friends,  I  hope,  but — but — " 

"I  had  hoped  we  were  that  already,"  he  said,  quickly, 
noticing  her  embarrassment.  "Aren't  we  ?" 

"Yes— I— I  think  so." 

"Then  why  shouldn't  I  find  Eastbourne  more  pleas- 
ant when  I  have  a  friend  there,  to  talk  to,  and  take 
walks  with,  than  I  would  if  I  were  alone  ?  I've  been 
alone  so  long !"  he  added,  a  note  of  sadness  in  his  voice. 

"So  have  I.  Perhaps  that  is  why  we  are  such  good 
— friends.  I  missed  you  to-day — " 

"It  seemed  interminable  to  me.  I  thought  the  end 
of  the  third  act  would  never  come." 

"I  didn't  feel  that  way.  I  liked  your  play  too  well. 
It  must  be  wonderful,  to  see  your  brain  creatures  walk- 
ing about  and  talking,  just  like  real  people.  I  should 
think  you  would  be  very  happy." 

"That  sort  of  thing  doesn't  make  people  happy. 
There  is  a  bigger  thing — a  so  much  bigger  thing  in  life. 
Don't  you  think  so  ?" 

Before  she  could  reply,  they  heard  Mr.  Rutherford 
asking  their  preference  in  placing  the  order  for  supper, 
and  their  little  tete-a-tete  was  for  the  time  being  broken. 
Randall  found  himself  obliged  to  answer  all  sorts  of 
questions  about  his  work,  his  life  in  New  York,  his 
plans  for  the  future.  Mrs.  Rutherford  seemed  espe- 


296  A  LOST  PAEADISE. 

cially  curious  to  know  when  he  proposed  to  return  to 
New  York,  and  remarked  quite  pointedly  that  she  and 
her  daughter  had  for  a  long  time  thought  of  visiting 
America. 

The  match-making  instinct  possessed  her — a  not  un- 
natural attitude,  when  she  saw  the  very  evident  happi- 
ness that  Jean  was  deriving  from  Randall's  presence. 
Of  all  this  by-play  Charles  Rutherford  saw  nothing. 
He  was  glad  that  his  mother  and  sister  were  having  an 
enjoyable  evening;  at  times  the  problem  of  entertain- 
ing them  while  in  London  had  proven  somewhat  of  a 
task,  on  account  of  his  sister's  recently  acquired  aver- 
sion to  gaiety  of  all  kinds.  Now  he  was  in  his 
element;  he  was  never  so  pleased  as  when  ordering  a 
meal,  and  prided  himself  greatly  upon  his  selection  of 
special  dishes  and  wines. 

Randall  and  Eve  ate  mechanically,  scarcely  know- 
ing what  was  set  before  them.  The  former  was  plan- 
ning a  formal  declaration  at  the  first  opportunity  that 
might  present  itself.  The  latter  was  concerned  with 
deeper  thoughts,  and  felt,  in  her  heart,  that  she  must 
ido  all  in  her  power  to  prevent  her  companion  from 
declaring  himself  at  all. 

The  reason  for  this  was  very  clear — to  her,  at  least, 
if  not  to  anyone  else.  Even  Randall,  knowing  as  he 
did  the  cause  of  her  depression,  had,  curiously  enough, 
failed  to  realize  its  effect  upon  a  sensitive  and  highly 
bred  woman  such  as  Jean  Rutherford. 

After  her  return  from  the  East,  a  profound  melan- 
choly had  settled  upon  her;  she  regarded  herself, 
though  through  no  fault  of  her  own,  as  a  woman  with- 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  297 

out  a  future.  When,  at  last,  she  had  sufficiently 
shaken  off  her  depression  to  go  about  the  daily  affairs 
of  existence,  she  made  up  her  mind  to  devote  herself, 
her  life,  to  the  service  of  the  poor  and  the  unfortunate. 
Marriage  she  felt,  was  not  for  her ;  she  could  give  her- 
self to  no  man,  with  the  blot  upon  her  soul  that  had 
been  there  since  the  moment  when  she  had  awakened 
from  her  stupor  to  find  herself  in  Randall's  arms. 

And,  now,  in  spite  of  her  lonely  life,  of  her  reluc- 
tance to  take  part  in  any  of  her  former  gaieties,  of  her 
absolute  refusal  to  meet  men,  except  as  friends  of  the 
most  formal  and  distant  sort,  she  found  the  rock  of 
solitude  upon  which  she  had  set  her  feet  trembling  be- 
neath her — she  knew  that  she  was  falling  in  love. 

At  times  she  put  the  thought  from  her,  and  gave 
herself  up  to  the  happiness  of  the  moment;  at  others, 
it  forced  her  into  the  deepest  depression,  and  she  made 
up  her  mind  never  to  see  Randall  again — only  to  find 
herself  hurrying  to  meet  him,  the  next  day,  with  im- 
patient footsteps. 

Often  she  argued  that  the  evil  which  had  come  to 
her,  and  wrecked  her  life,  had  come  through  no  fault 
of  her  own.  In  these  moods,  she  determined,  should 
Randall  ever  ask  her  to  be  his  wife,  to  accept  him,  and 
tell  him  nothing.  Yet,  deep  within  her  she  knew  that 
she  could  do  nothing  of  the  sort — that  to  marry  any 
man  with  this  dread  secret  between  them,  would  be 
impossible.  Thus  she  determined  that,  should  he 
speak,  she  could  give  him  but  a  cold  and  instant  refusal. 
It  was  this  knowledge  that  tortured  her — at  times,  past 
endurance.  She  realized  that,  if  they  were  to  remain 


298  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

friends,  she  must  use  every  means  in  her  power  to 
prevent  him  from  ever  asking  her  to  become  his  wife. 
The  little  party  broke  up — without  her  and  Randall 
having  had  an  opportunity  to  resume  their  tete-a- 
tete.  Before  saying  good-night,  he  asked  permission 
to  come  for  her  the  next  afternoon,  and  take  her  for 
a  walk  and  tea.  Mrs.  Rutherford  graciously  accepted 
on  Jean's  behalf,  before  the  girl  had  herself  spoken. 
Randall  went  off,  with  Taylor  and  Charles  Ruther- 
ford, to  the  latter's  club,  highly  pleased  with  the  out- 
come of  their  evening. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THEIR  walk  along  the  Embankment  the  next  after- 
noon extended  all  the  way  to  the  Houses  of  Parliament, 
and  back  past  the  hotel  to  "Waterloo  Bridge. 

When  they  started  out,  the  sun  had  been  shining 
brightly,  for  London  at  least,  through  the  faded  blue 
of  an  April  sky,  but  now  it  had  lost  itself  in  a  maze 
of  misty  shadows,  and  the  lights  of  the  city  began  to 
wink  cheerily  along  the  rapidly  darkening  streets. 

For  two  hours,  Randall  had  endeavored  to  tell  Eve 
of  his  love  for  her,  and  for  two  hours  she  had  skilfully 
prevented  him  from  doing  so,  although  the  effort  had 
cost  her  much. 

|He  on  his  part,  foolishly  blind  to  her  reasons,  be- 
came conscious  of  a  feeling  that  verged  upon  annoy- 
ance. Twice  within  the  past  hour  she  had  suggested 
returning  to  the  hotel,  for  tea,  and  twice  had  he  over- 
ruled the  suggestion,  and  begged  her  to  continue  their 
walk.  Now  the  approaching  darkness  warned  him 
that  he  must  either  say  what  he  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  say  at  once,  or  postpone  doing  so  until  another 
day. 

"Really,  I  think  we  had  better  start  back,"  Eve  said, 
for  the  third  time.  "Mother  will  wonder  what  has 

299 


300  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

become  of  me.  And  it's  awfully  late  for  tea,  you 
know."  She  spoke  easily,  without  emotion,  although 
her  heart  was  near  to  breaking.  She  dared  not  let 
him  speak. 

Randall  could  find  no  pretense  for  further  detaining 
her.  Her  manner  had  almost  convinced  him  that  she 
felt  for  him  no  stronger  emotion  than  that  of  a  friend. 
He  became  silent,  saying  but  little,  his  mind  filled 
with  doubts. 

"What  are  you  doing  to-morrow  ?"  he  presently  asked. 

"Mother  and  I  are  going  to  shop,  all  day.  We  put 
off  buying  everything,  you  know,  until  we  came  up  to 
town.  I  suppose  I'll  spend  most  of  the  day  at  the 
dressmaker's  and  the  milliner's." 

"And  the  evening?" 

She  hesitated  a  moment. 

"If  we  finish  everything  to-morrow,  we  may  return 
to  Eastbourne  at  night." 

This  was  startling  news,  indeed,  to  Randall,  and 
spurred  him  to  renewed  effort. 

"But — your  mother  said  you  would  probably  stay  a 
week." 

"I  know.  But,  then,  Mother  likes  London  better 
than  I  do." 

"Then  you  want  to  go  back  ?" 

"Yes— I— I  think  so." 

"Then  I  shall  go  back  to  Eastbourne,  too,  as  I  told 
you  I  would." 

"You  mustn't  do  that,  Mr.  Randall.  I've  enjoyed 
meeting  you  very  much — you  know  that.  I  hope  we 
may  see  each  other  often.  But  I  can't  agree  to  walk 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  301 

to  Beachy  Head  with  you  every  day  for  the  rest  of 
my  life."  She  laughed,  but  stopped  at  once  when  she 
heard  his  next  question. 

"Why  not  ?"  he  asked. 

The  lights  of  the  hotel  shone  not  far  ahead.  In 
five  minutes  more  she  felt  that  she  would  be  safe. 

"Isn't  that  rather  an  absurd  question  to  ask,  Mr. 
Randall?"  she  said,  coldly. 

Her  tone  hurt  him,  but  he  had  begun  the  great 
adventure  now,  and  was  determined  to  conclude  it, 
whatever  the  results. 

"Do  you  think  it  absurd,"  he  asked,  "for  a  man  to 
love  a  woman  so  much  that  he  wants  to  be  with  her 
— always  ?" 

She  felt  her  heart  jumping  frightfully.  Just  ahead 
was  the  entrance  to  the  hotel.  She  quickened  her  pace. 
This  then,  was  to  be  the  end. 

"No,"  she  said,  very  slowly;  "I  do  not  think  that 
absurd.  I  think  it  very  beautiful,  very  wonderful. 
But  we  were  not  speaking  of  love.  We  were  speaking 
of  two  people,  two  good  friends,  walking  to  Beachey 
Head." 

A  fit  qf  anger  swept  over  Randall,  anger  with  him- 
self, for  his  failure  to  tell  her  of  his  love,  and,  truth 
to  tell,  with  her  as  well,  for  what  seemed  to  him  for  the 
moment  quite  unnecessary  coquetry. 

"Jean,"  he  said  solemnly,  for  the  first  time  address- 
ing her  by  her  Christian  name,  "I  made  up  my  mind, 
when  I  came  to  meet  you  to-day,  that  before  I  left  you 
I  would  tell  you  something  that  means  more  to  me 
than  anything  in  the  world." 


302  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

"Oh,  don't — please — please,  don't!  I  beg  of  you, 
Mr.  Randall—" 

He  put  her  protestations  aside. 

"I  must,"  he  said  gravely.  "There  are  reasons — 
reasons  that  you  cannot  understand.  I  love  you.  I 
have  loved  you  since  the  first  moment  I  saw  you.  Life 
means  nothing  to  me — has  meant  nothing  to  me — 
since  then.  I  cannot  go  on  alone.  I  love  you  deeply, 
truly.  I  want  you  to  be  my  wife." 

At  last,  the  words  were  out,  and  they  both  stood 
trembling,  in  the  shadow  of  the  hotel  entrance.  Pas- 
sers-by regarded  them  curiously.  Randall,  unconscious 
of  the  presence  of  anyone  in  the  world,  except  that  of 
the  girl  beside  him,  took  her  hand. 

For  a  moment  she  clutched  his  in  frantic  helpless- 
ness, struggling  to  speak,  yet  finding  no  words. 

"Do  you  love  me,  Jean  ?"  he  asked,  looking  into  her 
pale  and  tortured  face. 

The  emotions  within  her  almost  stifled  her,  driving 
her  lips  to  speak  the  truth,  to  tell  him  that  she  loved 
him  with  her  whole  heart  and  soul.  He  must  have 
sensed  this  in  some  way,  for  he  held  her  hand  more 
tightly  in  his,  and  whispered  to  her,  again  and  again, 
under  his  breath : 

"I  love  you — I  love  you!" 

At  last,  she  summoned  up  enpugh  courage  to  tear 
her  hand  from  his,  and  stood  facing  him,  her  face 
very  pale,  her  lips  like  a  thin  thread  of  scarlet.  She 
could  not  tell  him  that  she  did  not  love  him;  even  the 
wretchedness  in  her  soul  could  not  make  her  thus  lie 
to  lo.ve.  And  so.  she  told  him  nothing,  sQarching  his 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  303 

face  with  terrified  eyes,  unable  to  find  any  words  to 
express  what  she  must  say. 

"You — love  me,  dear?  You  will  marry  me?"  he 
asked  eagerly,  not  understanding  her  manner. 

Then  her  words  came,  very  slowly,  very  deliberately, 
in  a  strange  voice,  so  calm,  so  remote  from  the  storm 
of  love  and  passion  which  raged  within  her  that  she 
scarcely  recognized  it  as  her  own. 

"I  cannot  answer  you  now,  Mr.  Kandall.  You  must 
give  me  time  to  think.  To-morrow — I — I  will  tell  you 
what  I  have  decided  to  do.  Good-night,"  Almost  be- 
fore he  realized  it,  she  had  thrust  her  hand  into  his 
for  a  moment,  bade  him  good-night,  and  entered  the 
hotel. 

The  manner  of  his  dismissal  left  him  singularly 
disquieted.  Her  last  words,  "To-morrow  I  will  tell  you 
what  I  have  decided  to  do,"  rang  strangely  in  his  ears. 
He  was  utterly  at  a  loss  to  know  whether  she  cared 
for  him  or  not.  Puzzled  beyond  all  reason,  he  rushed 
off  to  dine  with  Mr.  Taylor. 

The  latter,  observing  Randall's  dejected  manner, 
divined  that  something  untoward  had  happened,  but, 
being  a  man  of  much  wisdom,  he  made  no  reference 
to  it.  He  was  sailing  for  home  the  next  day,  and  their 
talk  was  all  of  New  York,  and  of  the  coming  theatri- 
cal season. 

Randall  had  tried  by  every  means  in  his  power,  to 
prevail  on  Mr.  Taylor  to  accept  an  interest  in  his  work ; 
but  the  latter  would  not  hear  of  it.  He  was  a  man  of 
ample  means,  and  very  fond  of  his  protege,  as  he  still 
laughingly  termed  Randall. 


304  A  LOST  PAEADISE. 

"Keep  your  money,  my  boy,"  he  advised.  "You'll 
need  it  all,  when  you  marry..  I'll  do  my  best,  with 
your  other  manuscript,  until  you  return  yourself.  And 
get  to  work  on  this  new  play.  There  will  be  a  de- 
mand for  your  work,  this  coming  season.  Better  strike 
while  the  iron's  hot." 

"I'll  begin  work  on  it  soon,  I  guess,"  Randall 
remarked,  rather  gloomily.  "In  fact;  I  rather  expect 
to  be  returning  to  New  York  myself,  very  shortly." 
Something  told  him  that  his  answer  from  Eve  would  be 
unfavorable.  He  was  quite  ready  to  believe  that,  much 
as  she  apparently  liked  him  as  a  friend,  her  interest 
ceased  there.  The  thought  of  leaving  her,  of  never 
seeing  her  again,  was  agony,  yet,  should  she  refuse 
him,  what  could  he  do  ?  To  annoy  her  further  would 
be  an  act  of'unkindness.  There  would  be  nothing  left 
for  him  but  to  leave  London  at  once. 

His  suggestion  that  he  might  return  at  an  early  date 
caused  Mr.  Taylor  some  surprise,  but  he  did  not  com- 
ment upon  it,  other  than  to  say  that  he  himself  found 
New  York,  in  the  early  spring,  more  enjoyable  than 
London. 

That  night  Randall  slept  little.  All  the  questions 
of  the  past  year  were  to  be  decided,  he  felt,  during 
the  coming  day.  The  greatness  of  his  love  made  him 
realize  how  great  would  be  his  suffering,  should  he 
find  that  Eve  did  not  care  for  him.  It  was  not  as 
though  the  girl  held  for  him  the  charm  of  a  temporary 
infatuation.  Over  and  over  he  found  himself  saying 
that  she  was  his  wife,  that  their  many  months  together 
had  bound  them  to  each  other  by  ties  which  could 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  305 


never  again  be  broken.  And  then,  in  a  rush,  would 
come  the  terrible  thought  that  while  Eve — the  Eve  he 
had  known — might  have  loved  him  beyond  all  ques- 
tion, this  girl,  Jean  Eutherford,  might  not  care  for  him 
at  all.  It  was  maddening,  a  frightful  situation.  He 
felt  himself  unable  to  meet  it. 

In  the  morning  he  determined  to  telephone  to  her, 
as  soon  as  he  finished  his  breakfast,  but  this  plan  was 
upset  by  a  letter,  which  arrived  just  as  he  was  leaving 
the  dining-room. 

The  handwriting  was  quite  unfamiliar  to  him,  but 
in  spite  of  this  he  knew  at  once  that  the  letter  was  from 
Eve.  The  mere  fact  that  it  was  a  woman's  hand, 
sufficed  to  tell  him  that.  He  knew  no  other  woman  in 
London. 

He  took  the  letter  to  his  room,  and  with  nervous 
haste,  read  the  contents. 

"Dear  Mr.  Eandall,"  it  said,  "I  have  thought  all 
night  long,  of  what  you  asked  me  this  evening,  and 
there  can  be  but  one  answer.  I  cannot  marry  you.  I 
have  decided  that  it  is  better  for  me  to  write  this  to 
you  rather  than  to  attempt  to  tell  you  in  person.  It 
would  be  hard — too  hard,  for  both  of  us.  I  cannot 
express  the  grief  that  fills  my  heart  as  I  write,  but  I 
know  that  I  am  doing  what  is  best.  It  would  be 
better,  for  us  both  not  to  see  each  other  again.  I  had 
hoped  that  we  might  be  friends,  but  I  know,  and  you 
know,  that  after  what  has  been  said,  we  cannot. 

"Good-by.  I  am  very  unhappy,  but  I  can  give  you 
no  other  answer. 

"Sincerely, 

"JEAN  RUTHERFORD." 


306  'A  LOST  PARADISE. 

Kandall  read  this  letter  over  several  times  before 
he  quite  realized  what  it  meant.  In  his  confusion  of 
mind,  the  words  seemed  illogical,  meaningless.  At 
last,  he  came  to  see  that  Eve  had  refused  him,  had  put 
him  out  of  her  life,  without  giving  him  any  reason  for 
doing  so.  She  had  not  even  said  that  she  did  not  love 
him.  In  fact,  he  almost  began  to  believe,  after  reading 
the  letter,  that  she  did  love  him,  but  that  some  other 
consideration  had  forced  her  to  write  him  as  she  did. 

Could  her  mother  have  objected,  he  wondered,  or 
her  brother?  Was  the  fact  that  he  was  an  American 
against  him?  Or  was  it  his  profession?  None  of 
these  things  seemed  in  any  way  adequate.  The  real 
reason  had  not  yet  occurred  to  him. 

Suddenly,  he  made  up  his  mind  to  see  Jean,  in 
spite  of  her  letter,  and  to  find  out  whether  her  refusal 
had  arisen  from  the  fact  that  she  did  not  love  him,  or 
from  some  other  cause.  He  felt  that  he  could  never 
be  satisfied  to  have  matters  remain  as  they  were  now. 

He  hurried  off  to  her  hotel,  regardless  of  the  fact 
that  it  was  only  a  little  after  ten  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing. The  announcement  that  came  in  response  to  the 
card  he  asked  to  have  sent  to  her  room  was  strangely 
disconcerting.  Miss  Rutherford  and  her  mother  had 
left  the  hotel,  he  was  informed,  half  an  hour  before. 
The  clerk  could  not  say  where  they. had  gone. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

IT  was  after  luncheon  when  Randall  took  the  train 
for  Eastbourne,  and  as  he  did  so  he  felt  no  certainty 
that  he  would  find  Eve  there. 

He  had  reasoned  the  matter  out,  however,  during 
the  remaining  hours  of  that  ghastly  morning,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  most  likely  that,  if  she  wished  to  avoid 
him,  she  would  have  returned  home.  Of  course, 
there  was  the  possibility  that  she  might  have  moved 
to  another  hotel ;  but,  if  so,  she  would  not  in  any  event 
remain  in  the  city  more  than  a  day  or  two  longer — in 
fact,  she  had  told  him  the  evening  before  that  she  and 
her  mother  expected  to  return  to  Eastbourne  almost  at 
once. 

In  any  event,  he  determined  to  go  there  himself,  and 
find  out,  if  that  were  possible,  the  real  reason  for  her 
refusal  of  him,  and  her  flight.  If  she  should  tell  him, 
face  to  face,  that  she  did  not  love  him,  he  would  have 
he  knew,  no  other  course  than  to  leave  her  at  once ;  but, 
if  there  proved  to  be  any  other  obstacle — and  his  reflec- 
tions during  the  morning  had  brought  at  least  a  sug- 
gestion of  its  nature — he  was  determined  to  use  every 
effort  in  his  power  to  remove  it. 

He  arrived  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  after  a  cheery 

307 


308  A  LOST  PAEADISE. 

welcome  at  The  Inn,  set  off  at  once  for  Hawthorne 
Manor. 

Here  a  trim  parlor  maid,  to  whom  he  was  quite 
unknown,  informed  him  that  Miss  Eutherford  was  not 
at  home.  Further  questioning,  however,  revealed  the 
fact  that  she  had  returned  from  London  some  hours 
earlier. 

At  first,  he  thought  of  asking  for  Mrs.  Kutherford, 
but,  on  second  thought,  decided  that  nothing  was  to 
be  gained  by  doing  so.  Doubtless  the  girl  had  gone 
out  upon  one  of  the  charitable  errands  that  usually 
occupied  her  afternoons.  He  turned  away,  restless 
and  impatient,  and  to  rid  himself  of  his  nervousness 
started  toward  the  beach. 

The  Esplanade  was  practically  deserted,  and  the 
path  along  the  rocks  entirely  so.  He  descended  to  the 
beach,  and  began  to  walk  along  it  with  nervous  strides. 
He  had  no  hope  of  finding  Eve  here ;  he  knew  that  she 
never  came  to  the  rocks  during  the  afternoon.  The 
thought  left  him  desolate.  He  strode  restlessly  on, 
trying  to  find  some  solace  in  the  roar  of  the  surf,  the 
smooth,  heard  beach,  the  beauty  of  the  low  afternoon 
sun  as  it  struck  across  the  edge  of  the  chalk  cliffs, 
casting  deep  warm  shadows  upon  the  yellow  sands. 

In  a  short  time,  he  found  himself  near  the  point 
where  Eve  and  he  had  first  met,  on  the  day  when  she 
had  observed  him  casting  his  improvised  spear.  He 
ascended  the  rocks  here,  to  observe  better  the  setting 
sun,  and  continued  his  walk  toward  Beachey  Head. 

The  sun  shone  in  his  eyes,  so  that  he  did  not  at  first 
observe  a  figure  in  a  gray  sweater  coat,  coming  along 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  309 

the  path  toward  him..  When  he  finally  did  so,  his 
heart  gave  a  great  leap.  He  thought  it  might  be  Eve, 
although  the  figure,  black  against  the  low-lying  sun, 
was  recognizable  at  this  distance  only  as  that  of  a 
woman. 

He  quickened  his  steps,  and  observed  that,  as  he  did 
so,  the  person  who  was  coming  toward  him  hesitated, 
stopped,  seemed  in  fact  debating  how  she  might  avoid 
him.  Then  he  recognized  her.  It  was  Jean  Ruther- 
ford. 

A  great  joy  sang  in  his  heart.  She  had  come  here, 
as  he  had  come,  because  it  was  here  that  they  had 
met — because  something  had  drawn  her,  as  it  had 
drawn  him,  to  this  place,  where  they  had  spent  so 
many  happy  hours  together.  In  a  few  moments  they 
had  come  face  to  face.  Randall  eager,  flushed,  im- 
patient; the  girl  pale  and  frightened,  unwilling  almost 
to  let  her  eyes  meet  his. 

He  took  her  hand  in  silence,  and  led  her  to  a  nook 
in  the  shelving  side  of  the  cliff,  where  a  natural  seat 
was  formed  by  a  degression  in  the  rock. 

"Sit  down,  Jean,"  he  commanded.  "I  have  some- 
thing to  say  to  you." 

She  obeyed  him  mechanically,  almost  listlessly.  It 
was  as  though  she  had  reached  a  crisis  from  which 
there  was  no  escape,  one  that  she  would  meet  as  bravely 
as  she  could,  though  the  prospect  filled  her  with  horror. 
She  looked  at  him  inquiringly,  but  waited  for  him  to 
speak. 

"I  got  your  letter,"  he  said,  simply.  "You  did  not 
say  in  it  whether  you  love  me,  or  not.  Do  you  ?" 


310  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

This  was  by  no  means  the  line  of  attack  she  had 
expected.  She  had  supposed  that  he  would  beg  her  to 
reconsider  her  decision,  and  she  was  prepared  to  assure 
him,  as  many  times  as  might  be  necessary,  that  it  was 
final.  But  to  ask  whether  she  loved  him!  That, 
indeed,  was  another  question.  She  could  not  at  first 
reply  to  it. 

"Tell  me,"  he  went  on,  his  voice  very  deep,  very 
earnest.  "Do  you  love  me  ?" 

She  tried  to  shake  her  head,  but  the  tears  in  her 
eyes  belied  her  actions.  She  could  not  lie  to  him — 
not  about  that — for  she  loved  him  with  all  the  depth 
and  intensity  of  her  nature.  What  she  did  was  to 
cover  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  sob,  softly,  but 
with  long,  shuddering  sighs  that  well-nigh  broke  Ran- 
dall's heart. 

He  took  her  hands  gently,  and  tried  to  draw  them 
away  from  her  face. 

"Don't  cry,  Jean,"  he  begged.  "Please,  don't.  I 
believe  that  you  do  love  me.  Tell  me  that  you  do." 

In  a  moment  she  had  regained  command  of  herself. 
Her  sobs  were  gone.  She  threw  back  her  head  almost 
defiantly. 

"Yes — I  do  love  you  !"  she  cried.  But,  when  he 
opened  his  arms,  and  would  have  swept  her  into  them, 
she  put  his  hands  aside.  "No. — you  must  not  do 
that,"  she  said  ;  and  he  realized  that  she  was  very  much 
in  earnest. 

"If  you  love  me,  dear,  you  will  marry  me." 

"No.     I  shall  not  marry  you — nor  any  man." 

"But— why— why?" 


A  LOST  PARADISE.  311 

"That  I  cannot  tell  you." 

"You  must.  It  is  our  only  chance  for  happiness. 
Jean — Jean — what  difference  could  anything  make? 
I  love  you.  Isn't  that  enough  ?" 

"I  do  not  know,"  she  replied,  her  voice  like  ice. 
"You  must  be  the  judge  of  that." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  will  tell  you,  since  you  force  me  to  do  so,  although 
I  have  tried  hard  enough  to  avoid  it.  But  I  warn 
you  that  I  shall  not  marry  you,  no  matter  what  pro- 
testations you  may  make.  You  might  believe  them, 
now,  but  the  thing  between  us  you  would  never  forget 
— and  some  day — sometime — "  Again,  she  hesitated. 

"You  need  not  tell  me,  if  you  would  rather  not," 
he  said. 

"You  accept  my  refusal  as  final,  then?" 

"No — no!  But  I  think  I  know  what  you  are  go- 
ing to  say." 

She  laughed,  a  hard,  biting  laugh. 

"You  could  never  know,"  she  said.  "Only  one 
person  in  all  the  world  knows,  beside  myself.  But  I 
will  tell  you,  and,  since  you  love  me,  you  will  never 
let  there  be  more  than  three.  I  cannot  marry  you, 
because  I  am  not  what  the  world  calls  a  good  woman. 
Once  I  was  cast  ashore,  on  an  island,  in  the  Pacific, 
with  a  sailor.  I  was  injured.  It  affected  my  brain. 
I  could  not  remember  my  name,  or  who  I  was,  or 
anything  at  all  about  the  past.  He  made  me  his  mis- 
tress. I  remember  nothing  of  it,  except  that  I  awoke 
to  consciousness  in  his  arms.  All  that  time,  for 
months  and  months,  I  had  lived  with  this  man. 


312  A  LOST  PARADISE. 

Then  I  was  rescued.  The  man  remained.  I  do  not 
know  what  has  become  of  him.  I  do  not  even  know 
his  name.  But  I  lived  with  him  for  four  months. 
That  is  why  I  can  never  marry — not  even  you,  whom 
I  love.  Now,  do  you  understand?"  She  rose,  and 
turned  as  though  to  go. 

Randall  placed  his  hand  on  her  arm. 

"Don't  go  yet,"  he  said.  "I  have  something  more  to 
tell  you." 

"I  know  what  you  mean  to  say — that  you  do  not 
care — that  you  want  me  to  marry  you  in  spite  of  all 
this.  I  can't  do  it.  I  can't — I  can't!"  Again  she 
began  to  sob.  "Let  me  go,  please." 

"Not  yet— Eve,"  he  said  softly. 

She  looked  at  him,  with  the  old  look  of  fright  coming 
into  her  eyes. 

"Why — why  did  you  call  me  that  ?" 

Eandall  thrust  his  hand  into  his  pocket,  and  drew 
out  the  bit  of  coral  which  he  had  with  so  much  labor 
converted  into  a  ring.  He  extended  it  to  her. 

"This  was  our  wedding  ring,  Eve,"  he  said,  simply. 
"You  are  my  wife."  He  took  her  hand,  and  placed 
the  ring  upon  her  finger.  "You  see,  it  fits  you  exactly. 
Don't  you  remember  it,  dear?" 

The  shock  was  almost  too  great  for  her.  That  this 
man,  the  man  out  of  all  the  men  in  the  world,  the 
man  she  loved,  could  be  the  red-bearded  sailor,  the 
memory  of  whom  had  filled  her  only  with  horror,  was 
unbelievable — almost  grotesque. 

"Don't — please!"  she  said,  with  a  shivering  laugh. 
"I  have  been  hurt  enough." 


A  LOST  PAEADISE.  313 

"Yes — you  have  been  hurt  enough,  my  precious 
girl,"  he  cried,  taking  her  in  his  arms.  "But  you 
shall  not  be  hurt  any  more.  I  have  searched  for  you 
for  half  a  year.  Do  you  think  I  shall  let  you  go, 
now — or  ever  ?  I  would  have  told  you  all  this — long 
ago — but  I  didn't  dare,  until  I  knew  that  you  loved 
me — me ! — irrespective  of  the  fact  that  you  were 
already,  by  force  of  circumstances,  my  wife." 

Although  she  remembered  the  ring  very  well,  since  it 
was  after  the  return  of  her  memory  that  she  had  taken 
it  off,  she  could  even  now  scarcely  believe  him.  It 
seemed  too  preposterous,  too  unreal.  "You — were 
that  man !  How  is  it  possible  ?" 

Then  he  sat  down,  and,  drawing  her  to  the  seat 
beside  him,  told  her  the  whole  story.  When  he  had 
finished,  she  put  her  arms  about  his  neck,  quite  simply, 
and  kissed  him. 

"Thank  God  that  you  have  come,"  she  said.  "I 
think,  now,  that  I  have  loved  you  all  the  time." 

The  twilight  had  come  and  gone,  and  the  stars  were 
beginning  to  make  silver  points  in  the  gray-blue  sky. 
Below  them  the  surf  rolled  in,  as  they  had  seen  it  so 
often  on  the  beach  below  the  cave. 

"We  have  found  our  lost  Paradise,  Eve,"  said  Kan- 
dall,  gently,  drawing  her  closer  to  him.  "God  willing, 
we  shall  never  lose  it  again  ?" 

"Amen,"  she  whispered,  and  began  to  cry,  very 
softly,  and  happily,  her  head  against  his  breast. 


